


Wealth and Taste

by ren_makoto



Category: Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VIII
Genre: Incest, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-22
Updated: 2019-12-15
Packaged: 2020-03-09 11:29:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 35,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18916075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ren_makoto/pseuds/ren_makoto
Summary: A mysterious man named Vincent moves in next door to Laguna and Squall. He seems to know their secret: that they are lovers. While Squall is away, Vincent and Laguna become close, but there is more to Vincent than what he seems. Can Squall save Laguna from the forces of darkness?





	1. Perfect

**Author's Note:**

> You are sunlight and I moon  
> Joined by the gods of fortune  
> Midnight and high noon  
> Sharing the sky  
> We have been blessed, you and I
> 
> You are here like a mystery  
> I'm from a world that's so different  
> From all that you are  
> How in the light of one night  
> Did we come so far?
> 
> Outside day starts to dawn  
> Your moon still floats on high  
> The birds awake  
> The stars shine too  
> My hands still shake  
> I reach for you  
> And we meet in the sky
> 
> -From "Miss Saigon"

They had a new neighbor. The moving vans came and went for two days, unloading chests of drawers and wardrobes and oddly shaped boxes into the rattling old house that had been up for sale for over a year. Several burly guys struggled with a crate that looked big enough to hold a bathtub; it looked heavy, long and unwieldy. Laguna watched all the activity with vague interest as he came and went from shopping or strolling through the neighborhood.

The windows of the house that used to belong to the Smith Family stayed dark that first day after the moving vans left. Laguna could only guess that the new resident had yet to move in. But the following morning, a big, brownish-red dog with unusual dark markings took up a sentinel position at the front door of the house. There was something decidedly feline about it, more tiger in its stance and manner than anything else.

Sometimes, when its long tail slashed through the air, Laguna imagined he could see a flicker of flame drawing shapes in the air after it. At least, he _thought_ it was his imagination.

The dog glared at anyone who approached with forbidding eyes. Laguna searched his memory and could not recall any other animal in his life looking as menacing and bloodthirsty as this one. And that day, and the next, from morning until sunset, he was always there, pacing back and forth before the door like a restless spirit of old, searching for victims.

Besides the Hell Hound (as Laguna began referring to the dog), nothing else seemed to stir at that old, regal house. No cars arrived and even the breeze seemed to shy away from its doorstep.

But when evening fell on that fourth night, the lights blared to life and a figure moved before the windows, a tall silhouette in black against the dark curtains. Laguna considered the long, distorted shape for a moment, curious, but then put it from his mind. Squall would be home soon.

Laguna smothered a mischievous grin and stayed in the kitchen when he heard the front door open and shut. It had been at least twenty-four hours since he'd last played a joke on Squall and the time was ripe.

There was a pause of a few dozen seconds where he could imagine Squall trying to figure out what the hell was going on. He didn't even give in to his laughter or the urge to go to the door when Squall's uncertain voice called, "Laguna?"

"In the kitchen!" And really, this was too much fun.

He kept his back to his son when footsteps signaled his arrival, washing the last dish, drying it, and standing on tiptoe to place it in the cabinet. Task complete, he turned around, bit his cheek to keep from laughing at the indignant expression on Squall's face, and launched into a dialogue.

"Well, it's been a busy day! I went shopping—bought a new book that looks really good, a murder mystery—and I picked up some groceries. I even found time enough to finish that chapter I was fighting with. It took hours! But all in all, I got everything done that I wanted to do today. Except, I keep having the strange feeling that I'm forgetting something."

Squall crossed his arms. "Really?"

"Yes, I just can't put my finger on it."

Squall was scowling at him now. Laguna guessed he had another 45 seconds before things got ugly.

"Let's see...nope, I remembered to take out the trash. Was it the laundry? Nope."

Squall cleared his throat and raised an eyebrow at him. And Laguna honestly was enjoying this far too much, but all games have to come to an end.

"Oh, that was it! That stupid insurance company?" He walked towards Squall and made to pass him as if the answers were in the other room. "Or maybe it was—" he began, but a firm hand on his upper arm cut him off. Squall twirled him back around gently and trapped him between his arms.

"Remember yet?"

Laguna let the grin go free. "Ahhhh!" he said and snapped his fingers, "You know, I think I just might have." And no sooner had he said it than he threaded his arms over Squall's shoulders, pulled him close and gave him the welcome home kiss that had _completely_ slipped his mind.

"You," Squall tried once he could think clearly again, but found he really didn't have the words to describe what Laguna was.

"Welcome home," Laguna said in a throaty whisper. "Dinner's in ten."

 

* * *

 

After dinner, they spent a quiet hour in Laguna's office. Squall put his feet up on the ottoman and read through a complicated looking report. Laguna pulled out his red pen and made some necessary, but difficult, edits. Occasionally, he rummaged through the mountainous stack of books on his old writing desk. It groaned when he leaned on it and both men eyed it worriedly, then shrugged when it stayed standing.

Laguna got comfortable in his chair and went back to work. When Squall's brow wrinkled with concentration or irritation, he threw something at him.

By the fifth time he failed to dodge a wad of paper, Squall was throwing things back and Laguna considered it a victory when his serious son smiled.

And after there was no way left for them to keep concentrating, they headed up the stairs, showered slowly together, and then fell into bed. Squall pulled him close immediately and commenced to undo all the work that the shower had done.

With his hands held out to either side, and one pinned down, Laguna watched with eager eyes as Squall used his free hand to trace down his inner arm. The path was slow and Squall never looked away from Laguna's eyes. When he found the small scar on Laguna's arm, near the joint, he traced around it with a feather-light touch. Laguna swallowed and then gasped when Squall lowered his mouth to it and sucked and licked like a mother cleaning a cub.

It wasn't a spot that should cause these kinds of reactions, the desperate twisting of his hips and roll of his body down and then up in jerks and twitches. Laguna's pleasure was as cock-centered as any other man's, but this had nothing to do with his body. This was all in his head and both men knew it.

A blood transfusion over five years ago, Squall's blood pumping into him; saving his life when his body was breaking down from all the things the military had done to him. The scar marked the place where the needle had been, the place where Squall had entered him, under the surface of the skin where nobody could see, but where Laguna could always feel him, a burning reminder of everything he needed to know. That scar meant more to Laguna than Squall saving his life. It meant that Squall was more than just his biological flesh and blood. Squall was now a part of him, in his veins, deep inside.

Squall watched Laguna lose control, his eyes saying the words he never did. And other words joined them just as silently. "I don't even have to touch you. I'm always inside you. I own you."

"Yes!" Laguna answered in words and with his body. He came without Squall ever touching his cock. When it was over, Squall ran his thumb in circles over the scar. "Does it ever hurt?" he asked.

"No. Not anymore."

They snuggled into each other's arms. It had been a day like any other with Squall, Laguna realized.

Comfortable.

Predictable.

He kissed the scar that angled across Squall's forehead and dropped between his eyes. They fell asleep that way, tangled together like one body made into two.

Perfect.

 

* * *

 

Laguna met Vincent exactly one week after he moved in.

"I'm going to bring the new neighbors a house warming present after dinner tonight." Laguna said while Squall gathered up his wallet and keys.

"Tonight? Why not go in the morning? Early afternoon?"

"I thought about that, but I don't think they're home in the day. The lights only ever come on in the evening. You're welcome to come along," he said to Squall as he searched on his desk for a blank envelope to put the card he'd written inside.

"Oh, sorry, but I actually have to stay late tonight," Squall said with a wince. To the casual observer, Squall's regret was due to his inability to play good neighbor. Laguna smirked, not fooled at all. He knew very well why Squall was disappointed about having to work late. He sidled up to him, wrapped his arms around him from behind and whispered in his ear. "Even if you get back late, you can wake me up."

Squall groaned. "Promise?"

"Always."

So that evening, Laguna delivered the basket alone. He crossed the street with a Good Samaritan bounce in his step, skirted around the dog who watched him with one eye while resting his long face on his paws. Oddly, other than that, the mean-looking animal seemed almost pleased to see him.

He rang the doorbell, and smiled his friendliest smile when the door opened.

The young man who answered gawked at him. An uncomfortable half a minute passed that way before he whispered something that Laguna couldn't quite hear, but what sounded like, "At last." The look on his face was the kind that had given rise to the saying "like he'd seen a ghost." His lips moved as if he were about to say a name, but then he managed to pull himself together and the strange expression on his face melted into politeness. "Hello," he said. "May I help you?"

And Laguna felt an itch at the back of his mind that told him that he'd met this young man before. And of course he had because the feeling of Déjà vu was so strong as to be undeniable. Oddly, he thought of snow. Fields of even white snow and his breath ghosting from his lips into thin, crystal air.

When the when's and where's failed to surface, he reconsidered his certainty that they had met. The man at the door was a unique looking fellow: his skin pale, his hair dark, and his features delicate. If he'd met him, he would have remembered. Of course, he was being an old fool again.

"Hullo. I'm Laguna Loire, and I live across the street. Welcome to the neighborhood," he said and extended a basket of homemade cookies, cakes, rolls, jams, and a selection of his favorite teas.

The young man stared at him unblinking as if afraid and hopeful all at once. "Th-thank you. I'm Vincent. Would you like to come in?" And of course Laguna did.

So they sat together in the tidy living room and had tea together, something he never got to do with Squall, who drank coffee in gulps simply to stay awake.

"I'm surprised that anyone does housewarming presents anymore. I can't recall the last time I heard of the practice being carried out."

Laguna laughed. "Well, that's because you're really young," he said, which got a polite, almost uncomfortable laugh from Vincent.

Laguna let it slide and continued, "But when I was a young man, it was common courtesy. It's died out now, but I'm kind of old-fashioned. I blame my wife. She believed bringing something nice to the new neighbors was the secret to happy neighborhoods."

"You're married?" Vincent asked in what bordered on a sharp, unpleasant tone.

"She passed away a long time ago. Now it's just me and my boy."

Vincent nodded in sympathy, calm again. "I see. It's an old pain for you. It must hurt to talk about her."

"Not at all. Actually, I don't get to talk about her much. I like to talk about her. It makes it seem like she's not really gone at all."

"You don't talk to your son about his mother?"

"No. Not really."

Laguna looked down at his hands. This was another one of the things that made even the simplest discussions with new people difficult. His beloved wife was a taboo subject in his own home, but not because her memory hurt Squall. He had loved his mother, but had recovered from her death long ago. No, the problem was much stickier than that.

It still bothered Laguna that she could be a topic of contention between he and Squall, the thing they fought the most about. He wondered what it was like to be jealous of your own mother. Squall never said that he felt that way, but Laguna was fairly sure that her memory was the only thing in the world his son considered competition for Laguna's affection.

"So now you are bringing up a boy on your own?" Vincent asked, snapping Laguna away from his thoughts.

And that made Laguna laugh out loud. "Oh, I always do that. Sorry." He waved a hand in front of his face and covered his eyes, as if clearing the air and hiding from his own silliness at once. "I always make him sound like he's a kid. He's actually a grown man. Twenty-five this year. And I didn't exactly raise him, but that's a long story."

Vincent eyed him curiously. "But if your son is twenty-five, you must be..." His eyes widened. "But that can't be. I hadn't imagined that...how could I have made such a..." He suddenly stopped speaking as if he had been about to say something secret. "You look very young," he finished, obviously bothered for a reason Laguna couldn't understand.

"Yeah, I get that reaction a lot. I look a bit...younger than my age. I think it throws my son's coworkers off. Sometimes they mistake me for his brother."

"I see. If you don't mind me asking, what does your son do?"

"No, I don't mind! He's military, just like his old man. But he served his time, and got his wounds, just like me," he said and tapped on his leg for emphasis. His long slacks hid the scar, but sometimes he imagined that everyone could see it. "And he's back home where he belongs now, thank God. He's still military, but he works in administration. I'm retired from the service myself. I've had enough of battles. Now I just write."

"You're an author. That's charming." Vincent said and smiled his first true smile. It softened his features and made him seem almost vulnerable.

"It's nothing, really, but it pays the bills."

"But what do you do for fun?" Vincent asked, raising a genteel eyebrow.

And Laguna had to blush. What he _did_ for fun was at work and wouldn't be home until late. "Oh, this and that," he answered and then changed the subject. Vincent let him.

"Squall, on the other hand," Laguna said airily, "likes to go riding around at all hours of the night on that blasted motorcycle he just had to have."

"Is that the most trouble he causes for you? With the kind of things that children can get involved in these days, that's not so terrible." Saying that, Vincent once again seemed far older than his years.

"You're right. He's a good kid." He slapped his forehead and laughed at himself. "There I go again, calling him a kid. I mean, he's a very nice young man. He respects his elders, always makes his bed."

That he had managed to say " _his_ bed" when the words " _the_ bed" had been at the tip of his tongue made him pretty proud of himself. The fact that he'd had to work for something that usually came easily bothered him. He was always more careful than this, but something about Vincent made him forget that he had to be.

Still, the two chatted amiably for the next hour and Laguna was fairly certain he hadn't said anything too incriminating.

He had to admit, he was impressed with Vincent.

Enough to give him an open invitation as he departed.

"Come anytime you like. My door is always open," he said.

"I might just take you up on the offer," Vincent accepted meaningfully. And Laguna noticed that even the way he spoke was proper and crisp, like an aging leading man from a black and white movie. They parted on friendly terms, Laguna smiling for the rest of the evening.

Vincent's manners were just so impeccable and his conversation so refreshing. He was open in a way that Squall never was. He felt guilty comparing them like that, but the things they had in common—a quietness, a subtle darkness—made it impossible to avoid. In the journal he kept, Laguna described him as a gentleman of the kind hardly seen anymore, a dying breed. He equated the young man in his mind with the old men he remembered from his childhood, the ones who dressed like their father's had: in shirtsleeves and bowler hats. They worked at the bank and carried pocket watches and walked with canes because it was elegant and elegance was everything. Men like that rarely smiled, but when they returned home at night, they kissed their wife's powdered cheek and read to their sons and daughters before bed. Vincent had the air of another age about him.

Laguna tried to shake the image because a man as young as Vincent shouldn't be placed in the same category with old men, but it wouldn't go away. Every time his neighbor came to mind, he associated him with the past; with old ways and ideas that existed as shadows in the mind of the middle-aged like him, who had seen it for themselves. And he linked him with the debonair and classy gentlemen who could be found in words on the pages of crumbling books or on flashing silver screens; remembered with a nostalgic fondness, if remembered at all.

 _In a lot of ways_ , Laguna noted, _he reminds me of myself._

Yes, he was impressed.

 

* * *

 

Through the dark curtains of his living room, he watched the man called Laguna cross the street, a small but noticeable limp in his every step, and felt the pang that had been dwelling in his heart for a long, long time slowly, beautifully, ebb. He was as lonely and miserable as ever, but this man reminded him that it hadn't always been that way. That it didn't have to continue on this way.

He had found him. Or he wanted to believe he had. After wringing his hands together for days, trying to invent an excuse to meet the man, he couldn't believe Laguna had come to him.

The feeling of Laguna was right, just as it should be, but the similarities were as striking as the differences. His companion slid into the room through the wall to his left, submitted to having his head patted, and then circled around his legs affectionately.

"The difference," Vincent whispered, crouching down beside him, "is in the blood. Something is wrong, the scent of his soul tampered with. It's why I couldn't find him for so very long. But it is him. He's just trapped. I will release him."

The dog cocked his head to the side as if considering, then nudged him gently. Vincent took heed of the cautioning gesture. His quest was at an end, true. But he couldn't act rashly simply because memories and desires told him to. He had to watch, he had to observe. He had to be sure.

He gestured to the basket of confections Laguna had brought. "Very well. Help yourself."

The dog sniffed at them and then selected a muffin, devouring it in an instant. His expression seemed to say, "You have NO idea what you're missing."

"For the first time in a long time, I truly regret that I cannot join you. Isn't that odd?"

He turned back to the window and studied the front of the house where Laguna lived. Inside, he was humming to himself and preparing dinner, cheerful and stunning. Unconsciously sensual. Vincent licked his lips and had to steady himself. He could not let his want overcome him, not until he was certain.

Most importantly, Vincent needed to understand Laguna as he was now, because a wrong move could destroy his chance at bringing back the fleeting, golden moment of his life. And things with Laguna were not what they seemed. The man was most definitely hiding something. Yes, he would be cautious. And then he would undo the past, start again. He had a second chance and he would seize it with both hands.

 

* * *

 

"I met the new neighbor today," Laguna said as he straddled Squall's lap. True to his word, Squall had come home and awakened his lover without hesitation; rolling him over and kissing him until Laguna could do nothing but wake up and kiss him back.

Laguna tossed his hair over his shoulder to keep it out of the way while he leaned down and nibbled at the nearest bit of skin he could find. A sharp collarbone that took him on an interesting path downwards.

"Mmm. Yeah? How was that?"

"His name is Vincent," he answered and laved at a nipple. He made to move away, but Squall held his head there and slithered under his mouth. Laguna smiled and gave a long, slow swipe. "He looks young, but not as young as you. He's very nice. Too serious, like you, but nice."

"I'm not too serious."

"Making you laugh is like wrestling bears."

"Really?" Squall said and rolled Laguna onto his back, spreading his legs efficiently and sliding between them. He probed inside Laguna with a finger and decided the lube job was good enough. It would have to be. His patience only stretched so far in the face of need like this.

"Really," Laguna answered and pulled Squall inside him inch by inch, fingers splayed on his ass. "Squall!" he gasped and dropped his head back onto the bed, his hair draping across the white of the sheets like another blanket. And that was the end of the discussion but just the beginning of a long night.

To be continued....


	2. Changes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Laguna begins to change.

Vincent kept his promise and came to visit in the evenings, always bringing a present such as wine or a basket of fruits. He claimed it was the height of rudeness to call on someone empty-handed. Laguna secretly agreed. It was what his father had always said. What his wife had always said. And there it was again, the comfortable feeling of the familiar with Vincent. For a man as young as he was, he felt more like a contemporary. And more often than not, he gave off the air of someone even older. It was intriguing. Dangerously so.

Laguna felt a strange sting of guilt in regards to the frequency he thought about the young man.

In his journal, he tried to describe Vincent, but always felt as if he were missing the essence of the man, the thing that made him so mysterious.

Part of it was his appearance, his Byron-esque, ghostly beauty. His eyes on his driver's license, he said, were listed as brown, but they appeared red in every light Laguna had seen them. Vincent laughed softly about that and claimed that he himself had no adequate explanation. The doctors, he said, had informed him that it was a strange, latent form of albinism. With skin as white as that, Laguna was tempted to believe it.

At times they chatted idly about the weather and the other little trivial things that fill up time and silences. But most often, they fell into long, animated conversations about history and the arts, science and culture. Vincent asked to read one of Laguna's books and Laguna acquiesced, nervously handing over one of his earlier works. Within the next two days, Vincent was back and enthusiastic, ready to discuss every chapter. Laguna was flattered. Very.

When personal matters crept into their discussions, Laguna noticed that the both of them were reticent to go into detail. His relationship with Squall made Laguna watch his tongue, but he wondered what secret Vincent kept. He never mentioned a girlfriend—or a boyfriend for that matter. He never spoke of his family or where he had come from. When pressed with questions about his reasons for moving into their quiet neighborhood, he said only that he had been searching for something.

"Did you find what you were looking for?" Laguna asked, curiosity making him pry when he normally would not.

"Yes," Vincent said and regarded Laguna with such intensity that he had to look away.

And the weeks rolled on, Vincent's name appearing quite often in Laguna's journal. He wrote of how they sometimes took evening strolls together, enjoying the peace and quiet of each other's company.

"I fear that you must feel very confined. You do not go out often," Vincent commented one day.

Laguna was taken aback. The idea that Vincent was observing his habits and behaviors so closely disturbed him a little, made him feel vulnerable. They young man was already occupying more of his thoughts than he thought healthy, he didn't need that to be mutual, confusing things further.

"How can you tell?"

"You're always home when I come to visit, and your son never is. You deliver housewarming presents filled with homemade confections that you had the time to make. Your house is spotless, but you have no housekeeper."

Laguna's mouthed dropped open in surprise, but he felt a strange relief. It was just logic on Vincent's part, nothing more. Very astute logic, but simple logic nonetheless. He wasn't watching him with binoculars or anything suspicious like that. He'd been silly to even think it.

"Well, I'm in between books now. When I go on tour, I'm gone for months at a time. Then Squall holds the fort and he has to cook for himself!"

"But when you are—how did you put it?—in between books, you care for his needs?"

Laguna squirmed at the phrasing. "I certainly make a lot of dinners," was his cowardly answer. He changed topics sloppily, holding up the kettle. "More tea?"

And despite the occasional moments of discomfort where he felt that Vincent implied too much with his words or simply knew too much in general, Laguna was fond of his visits. Fond enough that when the young man didn't come by, he felt disappointed.

"Well, hullo. I haven't seen you in awhile," Laguna said one evening, opening the door with a smile.

Vincent, as always, was dressed impeccably. He wore a dark suit with a crisp white shirt and blood-red tie and returned Laguna's smile before handing over flowers. "I found these today and realized they would look perfect in your dining room."

Laguna looked at the splash of daisy white and yellow, dotted here and there with soft pink blossoms and realized that, yes, they really would go well with the cream of his curtains.

"Thank you, they're really very pretty, aren't they?" He smelled them and noticed Vincent watching him intently. It made his heart do a little flip-flop.

"Yes," Vincent said. "Lovely." Laguna wondered why he felt as if Vincent wasn't talking about the flowers at all. There was something going on here, something that made him feel anxious and afraid all at once.

"I apologize for not coming to visit recently. I've been distracted."

"Oh, I understand. Don't worry. Would you like to come in?"

Vincent didn't answer immediately, but suddenly turned his head to the side as if he had heard something. "No, I'd best be going. Perhaps we can talk again?" he asked and briefly touched Laguna's hand. His fingers were long and thin, just like him, but they were cold.

"I-I'd like that," Laguna admitted. It wasn't the first time they'd touched, but it had felt much more intimate. Vincent nodded, then hurried away and disappeared inside his house.

Laguna stood in the door and watched as the lights illuminated the windows in Vincent's living room. A minute later and he could hear the distinctive hum of his son's bike. And a minute after that and Squall pulled into the driveway on the hated bike. It was just so noisy and dangerous. Squall, of course, looked roguish and handsome straddling the black machine, but Laguna would rather bite off his tongue than encourage him.

He pulled off his helmet, his chocolate brown hair sticking to his face charmingly, and then bounded up the steps to his father. He smiled. "Hi. Those for me?"

Laguna remembered the flowers suddenly, though he had been stroking the pedals between his fingers for who knew how long. "Oh, no, sorry. These are from the new neighbor."

"Victor?"

"Vincent," Laguna corrected and led his son inside, closing and locking the door behind him. Squall was in his arms immediately. Routine was routine and the kiss was as sweet as ever, but Laguna found his thoughts drifting.

"You know, it's funny," he said, moving into the dining room. "He's been here for two months and you still haven't met him. He's home now, we should go over and introduce you."

Squall was looking curiously at the flowers as he slid out of his leather jacket. "Yeah, sure. What are they for?"

"Umm...he said they'd look good in here," Laguna answered as he readied a vase and then arranged the flowers artfully in the center of the table. "They do, don't they?"

"He knows what our dining room looks like?"

"He visits pretty often. It really is odd that you haven't met him," Laguna added.

Squall's eyes narrowed. "Maybe I should."

As if he didn't notice the edge to Squall's voice, Laguna snapped his fingers. "Yes, that's a great idea. Come on, let's go now."

Saying that, he grabbed Squall's hand and pulled him out of the house and across the street. It was dark and quiet and there was no traffic here in the cul-de-sac. Through the windows of houses nearby, the silhouettes of families having dinner made everything seem peaceful and normal.

Squall rang the doorbell and crossed his arms against the October chill. Laguna shuffled his feet, strangely nervous for the two men to meet. A minute passed, then two. "I swear he just got back from visiting me. He should be here."

"Maybe he doesn't want to meet me," Squall said in a tone that Laguna thought should have been joking, but wasn't anything close to it.

"Well, nothing to do about it. Let's go home," Laguna said and raised an inviting eyebrow at Squall.

"Yeah, sounds good," Squall said and smirked.

 

* * *

 

That night, it was slow and strangely intense. Squall took him twice, each time lasting long enough to make Laguna beg. There was time in between each thrust, time enough to kiss and touch while waiting for the next thrill of sensations. He found himself whimpering with the unyielding, hungry pace, the way Squall owned his body with every touch.

"Stay with me," Squall demanded when it seemed as if Laguna would come before him.

"I can't," he gasped back. "Finish it, I need you."

But Squall denied him the relief he needed. He slowed down even more until Laguna was in control again, his breathing less harried. "Better?"

"Yes," he said and dug his heels into Squall's ass. "Fuck me."

After they were both satisfied (for the night at least), they wrapped around each other and shifted slightly, just to feel the other close and warm with each movement. The sweat dried on their skin and the scratch of salt took its place.

Laguna kissed Squall's shoulder and snuggled his cheek against it. "Have I ever told you how difficult it is trying to introduce you?"

"A few times."

"Well it still is. I want to say, 'This is my son. He's also my boyfriend and an amazing kisser,' but that would get me arrested. One or the other isn't quite right either. It would be easy to lie, too. We don't even have the same last name. I didn't raise you. I could just introduce you as my boy toy and pretend I like 'em young," he said with a twang and a growl and then pounced on Squall, tickling him.

Squall fought him off halfheartedly, laughing the entire time. It was one of the things about Laguna he liked the most: the man knew how to make him laugh. Sometimes he didn't smile even once during the day, but then he would come home to Laguna only to find his face hurting as he crawled into bed. Laguna forced him to use facial muscles that never got used at work, laughing and smiling.

Inevitably, the roughhousing ended in kissing, Laguna rolling Squall onto his back and lacing their legs together. "I tried not to want you."

"I wish you'd given up sooner," Squall admitted.

They touched and snuggled in silence for a few more minutes before Laguna said, "We could try again tomorrow."

"Are you sure you'll be up for another round of this tomorrow?"

Laguna punched him half playfully. "Of course I'll be up for this. I'm not THAT old. But that's not what I was talking about. I meant visiting Vincent. Maybe we could go by tomorrow morning. You're off tomorrow. I'll fix up a basket of something nice and we can bring it over."

Squall glanced out the window at the evening made bright only by a streetlight. His expression was troubled. "Yes," he said. "Let's do that."

 

* * *

 

But it wasn't to be as an emergency call in the night had Squall up and out the door before three. And when Squall was up, Laguna was up.

Squall rushed to gather up his things. He had just enough time to kiss Laguna thoroughly, pressing him up against the wall near the front door and giving him a problem he'd have to take care of by himself in the shower later.

"Stay," Laguna begged and ground his hips languidly into Squall's.

"Want to," Squall panted and ground right back. "Can't." One last, long kiss and a caress to his cheek. "Save that for me," he whispered and glanced down.

Laguna turned a little red and hid his smile with a disapproving shake of his head, which Squall didn't believe at all. And then Squall was out the door.

Laguna stood on the porch, bundled up in his heavy robe, and watched affectionately as Squall straddled his bike and rode off. The streaks of his rear lights lingered and then faded away like smoke.

The world was colored strangely, he remarked to himself, staring out at the quiet, suburban vistas. Not quite morning, but hardly night. It was a magic time, he realized.

And just as he thought it, Vincent seemed to appear before the door to his own silent and dark house, as if he had fallen from the sky like a hawk: soundless, darker than the midnight.

Their eyes caught and Laguna felt like he was wearing much less than a robe. And, perhaps because it would be rude to walk away—and perhaps because whatever bonds tied them together would no longer be denied—Vincent came towards him.

It was certainly a trick of the light but there was more color to his skin tonight. More than Laguna had ever seen before. He looked vibrant, his lips red and his eyes bright. Laguna felt his heart thundering as the man approached. And when he finally stood before him, he stood too close, coming up the steps to look into his eyes.

"You're up awfully early," Laguna said, wanting to take a step back but fearing it would be insulting if he did so.

"I could say the same for you. Did something happen?"

Laguna smiled fondly. "Squall got called into work early."

"Squall. Your—" Vincent said and then paused, small breathy noises filling the space.

 _Did he just smell me?_   Laguna wondered. And if he had, there was no question as to what he smelled like: sweat and sex.

"Son?" Vincent finished, his voice bland.

"Yes. My son," Laguna answered stiltedly and knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Vincent understood very well—and was displeased with—the true nature of his relationship with Squall. The tension in his broad shoulders, the downward turn of his lips, everything about his body language said that Vincent loathed and detested the fact that he spent his nights screaming Squall's name.

Laguna wondered if his disapproval was based on the belief in the wrongness of a relationship like theirs, or sprung from something else, some unspeakable emotion.

"I have never met him," Vincent said sadly. "He is...a lucky man."

Laguna couldn't suppress his gasp as his question was answered. "I-I...I should go inside," he said, tugging his robe more tightly around his body.

But Vincent only stepped closer and there was something metallic about his breath, a smell Laguna couldn't quite place.

"Please stay. Let me look at you. You truly do not look your age," Vincent said and jerkily lifted his hand, as if he couldn't help himself. It cupped Laguna's cheek softly. Unlike every other time when their skin had touched, he was warm today. "Why?" he asked.

"That's another long story," Laguna said and laughed humorlessly. "One the military would like me not to tell."

"I see," Vincent said. "But you do age. Your beauty will not last forever."

Laguna wanted to pull away from the hand, from the proximity of this man. Almost as much as he wanted to stay. Had the hours they spent together always been leading up to this? The closeness, the pull of the moment, it was all confusing him, making him feel oddly guilty even though he hadn't done anything to betray Squall. Yet.

"I do age, but I'm hardly a beauty," he countered.

"But you are." Vincent moved even closer. Laguna noticed—not for the first time, but certainly for the first time with worry—that Vincent was at least four intimidating inches taller than him. He looked down at him with those ruby eyes and refused to look away. "It is a pity that you will fade and die and wither like everything else."

He leaned down now, until their lips were almost touching. "I find myself wishing you would not," he said. "There are places in your soul, Laguna. Both light and dark. They want to be let free. Let me—"

Laguna stumbled away, breathing erratically. "I...I have to go inside," he interrupted.

Vincent looked down and his dark hair covered his face. "Then say I can visit tonight."

"You know you can," Laguna found himself saying and it wasn't a lie. Vincent was still his friend, no matter how unusual his behavior was today.

"Say it," Vincent demanded.

Laguna frowned. "You...you can visit me tonight."

Vincent nodded and then turned and fled leaving Laguna to close the door behind him, disoriented and oddly frightened. "What the blazes was that all about?" he wondered aloud to the empty living room.

 

* * *

 

The call from Squall in the early evening was welcome. Laguna dropped his pencil, grabbed the portable and flopped onto the bed. "Hullooo!" he said brightly into the phone.

Squall chuckled. "Hello, yourself."

"Where are you? I cooked lasagna."

"And I wish I could eat it, but I can't make it home tonight. I had to head to the base."

"The base? But that's two states away!"

"I know. There's no way this is going to be fixed before tomorrow evening. I'm in a hotel near the station. I refuse to stay on the grounds tonight. I promise I'll be home soon. Save some lasagna for me."

Laguna was pouting and knew Squall knew that he was pouting. To cover it, he dropped his voice to a husky tone and said, "In a hotel, hmm? So, what are you wearing?"

And it was a rare occasion when Squall played along with his sillier games, but today both of them were in the mood. "Absolutely nothing," Squall said. Laguna pretended not to hear the sound of Squall's zipper sliding down or the rustle of his shirt coming off. It had been a lie before, but it certainly wasn't now.

"Nothing? Well, that's just perfect."

"Really?"

"Oh, yes. Because I want you," Laguna admitted and managed to get his own jeans down one-handed.

"How?"

Laguna closed his eyes and could imagine Squall—all the lean, tight, delicious muscle—how he wanted to see him. "On your back, leg's wide. Obedient."

Squall moaned. "Done."

"No, Squall. Wider. Show me that you want me."

The sound of a bed creaking and blankets rumpling sounded through the phone. Somewhere, miles and miles away, Squall was open for him, ready and hungry.

"Good. You wish I could be there to touch you, don't you?"

"God, yes."

"Well I want to touch you, too. But I can't, can I?"

"No."

"You'll have to do it for me."

"W-where?"

Laguna swallowed and decided to embrace the role. "Your cock," he said boldly. "Use lube. I want you to imagine that I'm with you, making you feel good."

There was a fumbling noise and then the sound of a lid flipping up. "I want that."

"Then touch yourself," Laguna said and sighed dreamily when he heard his command being carried out. Squall wasn't always a vocal lover, but Laguna knew what to pay attention to: the falter in his rhythm, the catch of his breath, the sound of his lips opening and closing wordlessly.

"I love how you taste," Laguna said when he was certain Squall was ready for the next step. "Do you know what you taste like to me?"

"N-no," Squall answered.

"You taste sweet, like sugar or caramel. Come for me and tell me if I'm right."

Squall gasped and then stumbled over his own words. "Can't...it's too soon. I need more. I need you."

Laguna's heartbeat was too loud. He struggled to hear the sound of Squall's hand moving up and down on his cock, slicked by lube and pre-come. "Then touch yourself where you want me to be. Imagine that your hands are mine. Make yourself come for me."

Squall gave a choking gasp. There was an electronic click as the phone went to speakerphone. Laguna felt his pulse leap in anticipation. Squall had his hands free. This could be good.

"Tell me what you're doing. Where are your fingers?"

"I-inside me. Laguna...it's...ah!"

"Good," Laguna said and slid down farther on the sheets, taking himself in hand and moving in time to the sound of Squall's breathing.

Shakily, Squall asked, "Is that...are you...nnghh...touching yourself?"

"Yes," Laguna hissed. "I'm thinking about how you look right now, bringing yourself off with just your fingers. I wish I could be there. I want to hold you down and fill you. I want you to feel me everywhere. I want to drink your screams and your—"

"Fuck!" Squall cried, the enticing words conspiring with his own hand. It was finally all too much for him.

"Tell me I'm right. Tell me if it's sweet," Laguna demanded, his breath coming in strangled gasps.

"God, Laguna. I want to hear you. You have to, you have to—"

"I'm with you."

Laguna picked up the pace and came a few seconds later before joining Squall in a desperate struggle to regain his breath. It was another minute more before he felt competent enough to speak.

It hadn't been quite what either man wanted—which was the real thing for a few sweaty hours—but it had done the job well enough and been pretty hot since they had both wanted it to work so badly.

"Good enough?" Laguna questioned.

"Good enough. More than good enough. Jesus. But I'm not letting you sleep tomorrow."

"We'll just see if you can put your money where your mouth is," Laguna said and snuggled into the sheets like a cat. "I don't like sleeping alone, Squall. Come home to me."

"Laguna, I—" Squall said quietly, almost nervously.

Laguna cut him off with, "I know. It's mutual." He didn't need to hear it. He knew it in his soul. "Goodnight, Squall."

"Goodnight. I will be home soon. You can do all those things you want to do to me then."

And then he hung up.

Laguna chuckled and threw the phone down.  _Phone sex?_   he thought and shook his head. Well, there was a first time for everything. For a minute, he was overcome with a fit of laughter. How old  _was_ he?

And there was no way he was going to get any work done tonight after that.

He looked down at his hand, his thighs, and his stomach. God, he was a mess.

So he took a bath, changed the sheets, popped some popcorn and watched a scary old black and white movie. All the damsels in the movie had a way of fainting in just such a way that their breasts fell out of their virgin-white dresses. It was a laugh.

Somewhere around ten o'clock, he realized that Vincent hadn't come by and was relieved and disappointed all at once. He forced himself not to think about it when he would have otherwise.

Curling up in bed and settling down to sleep for the night, he thought of Squall and how big the bed was without him. It was oddly warm for an October night and he opened the window to let in the warm breeze.

But he slept fitfully. The movie combined with the odd events that morning gave him twisted dreams that made him squirm in his sheets until they tangled around him. Monsters pursued him through a nightmarish labyrinth of crystal white. Despite the terror of the dream, he didn't startle awake, but came to slowly in stages, still half in the dream where he had no weapons to fight the demons that chased him.

He didn't know the exact time, but guessed it to be sometime before midnight. The breeze turned suddenly cold, gusting over his bare chest and legs cruelly. It dragged him closer to wakefulness as he contemplated rising to shut the window. But then it didn't matter as a warm body was suddenly above him, blocking the chill.

And how he had entered the room so silently didn't matter, nor did it matter what had kept him.

Laguna didn't even think. Curiosity and something unknown buried inside him made him long to try, to taste, as if the flavor might grant him the gift to see memories he had forgotten. Extending his arms, he dragged the body closer to him. He knew it wasn't Squall, but a small voice in his mind told him that if he kept his eyes closed, he could  _pretend_  like he didn't know. He could pretend that he had done this terrible thing by mistake.

Hair that was far too long tickled his chest and hands that were too cold pulled him closer. "It wasn't supposed to be like this," a dark, velvet voice intoned. "I meant to win you, to make you come to me when you were ready. But I saw you this morning, tasted your want on the air, and it all fell apart. After all my planning and patience, I find I cannot wait any longer. Forgive me."

When Vincent's lips came down and claimed his, Laguna realized that it was nothing like kissing Squall. This felt familiar in a way he couldn't put his finger on, like a memory of a dream from another life. The kiss was light, airy, and somehow darkly sensual.

Squall kissed him like he needed it to breathe.

But Vincent—

Vincent kissed him like he was afraid he might break. He was being kissed, he realized, as if he were priceless.

The kiss seemed to last for ages. When it ended, it was almost tragic how empty he felt. He opened his eyes, willing now to accept what he had just done.

"I love him," he said simply.

Above him, pale and magnificently beautiful, Vincent shut his eyes and turned his head away. "And is there room enough for only one in your heart?"

Laguna blinked. "It's not so simple as that."

"Perhaps it should be," Vincent said and kissed him again. Laguna opened his mouth to the assault and moaned when Vincent's tongue danced inside his mouth, teasing him or savoring him. Both.

Laguna struggled with himself. He had to end this now, but why was it so hard? And the answer was quite simple: he wanted to be kissed like that again. Not like he was the answer to everything, but like he was spun glass, delicate and teetering on the edge.

Looking down at him like a man staring at a long-lost treasure, Vincent raised a hand and swept it before Laguna's eyes. "We begin our journey back together tonight."

A strange weakness suddenly settled over Laguna's body, as if he would never be able to lift his arms and legs again. He felt heavy against the mattress and couldn't even struggle as he was lifted and cradled against Vincent's strong chest.

"Somewhere where he will not see," Vincent demanded softly.

"There's nowhere," Laguna admitted. Squall knew his body very well. He would notice even the tiniest mark.

"Then love him in the dark. Only in the dark," Vincent said and lifted a thin finger. Laguna had never noticed how long his nails were before. How sharp. Their eyes locked as Vincent trailed the nail down Laguna's neck, past his collarbone and then to his smooth chest. He stopped just above the hard bud nearest his heart and with a slow, heavy pressure, sliced open the skin.

Laguna gasped and arched at the pleasure-pain.

"Does it hurt?" Vincent asked concernedly.

"Yes."

"I sympathize with you for I too know pain. Can you imagine how long I've suffered? It ends tonight."

And then Vincent lowered his head, his lips soft and cool over the pierce. Wrapping his arms around him, Laguna wondered what he was doing, letting this man do these things to him, but he couldn't stop it. Didn't want to stop it. The slow, almost ticklish feeling of his blood pooling into the other man's mouth was sensual in a way he had never experienced before.

Vincent pulled back and gasped. "Your blood is...you are not...He..." but then he fell short before trying again. "I see. I understand now. It makes things difficult, but not impossible. Before you were anyone else's you were mind. You will be again."

He returned to the cut and gulped, moaning at the feeling of having what he had wanted for so long sliding down his throat and coursing deep within him. Laguna felt as if his heart was going to fly away. The world was tumbling down around him, withering away to ash and bones and he didn't care.

When Vincent pulled away, he clung to him, shuddering in the aftermath. "Don't stop," he panted.

"If I take more, you will die."

"And that's not what you want?" Laguna asked, fingering the silken locks that fell over Vincent's shoulder. His voice was half misery, have ecstasy.

"No, my beloved. Far from it," Vincent answered and lowered his mouth to Laguna's.

 

* * *

 

Day chased the night away, but its light was haggard, beaten by the effort it took to fight the darkness day after day. Laguna woke with it, but wanted nothing more than to go back to bed. His head ached and he felt dazed. The entire night was a blur.

He'd watched a movie, crawled into bed and then...

 _Why did he hurt everywhere and where did those bruises come from_ , he wondered.

A cowardly part of him knew that the confusion and pain would stop once Squall returned. Squall had a way of making things seem simple for him. But an early morning call dashed his hopes.

"The problem here is much worse than I thought," Squall said by way of an apology. "I'll be home as soon as I can, but I'm not going to be able to get out of here until the problem's solved."

"Squall," Laguna said, the name alone a plea.

"Yes?"

"Please come home."

"I...are you all right?"

"Yes. I just want you to come home."

There was a pause and then a sigh. "You know I would if I could. I promise I'll do everything I can to make this quick. Is that all right?"

Laguna struggled to put a reassuring smile in his voice. "It's all right. I'll be here. Just come back to me when you can."

When he hung up, he looked around the room as if he expected the shadows in the corner to lunge at him. He'd never felt so alone in his life. Even being left to die on a battlefield didn't feel this lonely. He passed through the day as if in a waking dream, never sure of what was real or mere illusion. Chunks were missing from his memory and he wondered why he expected a visitor to come who never did.

He closed the windows that night. Double-checked every lock. He couldn't rationalize his panic; he only knew that he felt like prey. Why couldn't he remember the night before?

All his precautions made no difference.

Shortly after midnight, Vincent came for him and brought all the memories with him. Standing in the window to his room as if he had melted through the glass, Vincent's gaze was incendiary; waves seemed to crest and roll off of him. The entirety of last night flooded into Laguna's mind and made him cover his heart, aware of the scratch on his chest as if for the first time.

He scrambled to his feet and backed away, his eyes afraid.

"You have to stay back," he said, turned, and fled.

It felt strange to run from Vincent who he still respected, who still fascinated him. But he had to. There were things that mattered more than the thrill of Vincent's kiss.

He made it to the hallway before a pair of steely arms encircled him, spun him around, and pulled him close. "You would run from me?" Vincent asked with real hurt and reprimand in his voice.

"Leave us alone, Vincent. This can't end well. Just forget about me."

Vincent neatly tore his t-shirt from his body, as if it were paper. "No," he said. Then he raised his hand and brought it before Laguna's face. He hesitated and then questioned, "Will you sleep, or will you feel this?"

"Neither. Stop this, Vincent."

"You have your choices. Choose." He emphasized his words by shaking Laguna fiercely, like a child having a tantrum.

Eyes wide, Laguna answered, "L-let me feel it."

"So be it. Relax," was Vincent's whispered command, impossible to disobey. Laguna slumped in his arms, but found himself conscious of what was being done to him, just like before.

"Will I remember this time?" he mumbled.

"Probably not." Vincent lifted Laguna in his arms and carried him to the bed, lowering him gently, like a father tucking a beloved child in for the night.

Then with the long nails of his right hand, he opened a new cut on Laguna's chest, right next to first. When he drank this time, Laguna jerked with the passion that washed down his body with each suck and lick. "V-Vincent I..."

"Shhhh, let me taste you."

And so he did, falling into the embrace of the dark. For the first time in years, he came, screaming a name that wasn't Squall's.

 

* * *

 

"Are you all right?" Squall asked and took a bite of his toast. Laguna was barely sitting up in his chair. It was good to be home, but when he had quietly slid under the sheets the night before, the most Squall had gotten from Laguna was a kiss and a snuggle. That was very un-Laguna-like behavior; especially after the promise the phone sex had given Squall. He had been anticipating...something more.

Laguna admitted that he didn't feel well and Squall could believe it because he didn't look so good, either. His skin was pale and he kept squinting at the sunlight as if it hurt his eyes.

"But really, I'm fine. I just feel," he paused here to yawn, "so tired."

"You're working too hard on that book. You should rest. It'll get written eventually."

Laguna smiled. "Tell that to my publisher."

"I just might."

"On second thought, don't tell that to my publisher. You're like a rabid dog when you're in a bad mood."

Squall didn't reply to that. Instead, he kissed him on the forehead and headed for the door. "I can see myself off today. You rest," he said, hiding his concern when every fiber in his being told him to stay. The routine had been broken.

The minute Squall was out the door, Laguna collapsed on the couch and slept the morning and most of the afternoon away. He dreamt of a demon lover who came to devour him. But when he woke, this dream, just like all the events of the night before, were hidden from him. He couldn't remember the first thing about the dream any more than he could remember where the strange scars on his chest had come from.

Yet, when evening came, he felt himself oddly energized. Enough to get in a few good hours of real work. The hands of the clock showed the passage of time and Laguna worked as they ticked along.

Feeling like he'd accomplished something today, he decided that he didn't want to stare at a computer screen anymore today. He left a note on dinner ("Out for a jog") and went out the door at a sprint, glad to breathe in the fresh autumn air.

He lost track of time, mesmerized by the crunch of leaves beneath his feet and the cheerful holiday decorations in orange and green all throughout the neighborhood. He loved the holiday as much as any child.

Night fell. He paused and looked around him. He wasn't quite sure where he was, the dark confusing him. Right or left to get back to Oak? It was all so disorienting the way these streets melted into each other around here.

And when he stopped to tie his shoes, he never got the chance to scream as he was swept off the ground and pulled into the air. The cold night air made him shudder, the vice-like grip on his body made him want to scream. They weren't so high, but they moved too fast. The ground became a blur of green broken by black streets and yellow lights and the gray shingles of white houses.

He clutched to the figure in black that held him and stayed that way even after they were safely on the ground. He broke away as soon as he could, staggered, caught himself on the damp ground, and then struggled to his feet.

"I thought I was going to die."

"I would never hurt you," Vincent whispered.

Laguna looked around. They were surrounded by trees—perhaps a park—and the only light came from the moon and its reflection off the sidewalk. He could understand why Vincent had picked the spot. It was lovely, his idea of a romantic stroll.

"You've got a funny way of showing it," Laguna countered and touched his chest where the wounds hadn't healed. He remembered now. He remembered  _everything_.

In answer, Vincent lifted his shirt and seemed unfazed by Laguna swatting his hands away.

"Let me," Vincent said, examining him. "Are you in much pain?"

"Those are pretty deep," Laguna said with a bite to his voice.

"I'm sorry," Vincent said sincerely and then leaned close to the scars, licking them like a cat lapping at a bowl of cream. His tongue strayed down.

"S-stop." Laguna dropped his head to the side, closing his eyes.

"Do you truly want me to?"

And that he couldn't answer. He forced himself to nod his head yes.

With a sigh, Vincent stepped away from him. "I will let you go, if you want to go."

Laguna's eyes darted to the clearing beyond the trees, to safety and freedom.

"I will let you leave. Tonight. But I will come for you again. I cannot lose you. I will not."

He stared into Laguna's eyes. "I know your soul and I worship it." Vincent spread his arms wide. "Come to me."

He smiled like a forgiving parent when Laguna fell into his arms. "I don't understand what's happening."

"Don't be afraid. This feels right to you, though you fight it. This is what is meant to be." Caressing his chest, the taut stretch of skin over his ribs, the strong column of his throat, Vincent loved him gently, contrary to the vicious wounds he could inflict. Wounds he was not finished giving.

"Does it still matter if he sees or not?" he asked, lapping at Laguna's neck with a soft, tickling tongue.

"Yes. You know it does."

"Then let him  _deal_  with it," Vincent growled and angled his mouth towards Laguna's neck. Laguna could see the sharp white flash of teeth.

"No," he said, breathlessly. "Not there. Squall..."

Vincent hissed, his ruby eyes spitting fire and lunged for Laguna's neck deaf to his pleas. At the last minute, however, he veered away, reacting to the hurt, confused expression on Laguna's face. "After all," he said in a self-mocking tone of voice, "I can't go against you. I never could."

Saying that, he pressed a nail hard into Laguna's chest, harder than ever, and added a third mark. Laguna watched him through heavy-lidded eyes with only the smallest flinch and then a slow roll of his hips that was nothing but want. "Do it," he said simply.

And so Vincent did, arching him back over his arm and drawing him close, he swept in and took, drinking like a man in the desert given a fountain.

And Laguna shuddered and whimpered and couldn't understand why this felt so good. "I'm...I shouldn't..." he said, shaking his head as if to deny his body's reaction.

"Don't fight it. Let go and embrace what you feel."

Still Laguna resisted, biting his bottom lip and squeezing his eyes tightly together. But after all, it was too much for him to combat. He pressed into Vincent as if trying to merge with him and shouted his release into the forest of night. Sated, he rocked gently against Vincent as the blood in his veins was torn from his body.

When he finished his feast, lips stained with red, Vincent kissed Laguna desperately, sharing the taste. "There are memories in blood," he whispered against his lips. "The more I drink, the more I know you. The more I know for sure that you are mine. That you have always been."

There was a whoosh of air and the heavy beat of something like leather in the breeze. Something warm cocooned around Laguna, pulling him closer to Vincent, protecting him.

"Sleep," Vincent commanded. And so he did, lulled by the sound of wind rushing past his ears.

The next thing he was aware of, he was stumbling into his front door with no idea how he'd gotten there. Squall was standing in the darkness with his arms crossed and his gray eyes shadowed and cold. It was a familiar scene.

"Where were you?" he demanded.

Laguna squinted at the clock. It was no wonder, really, that Squall was upset. It was past midnight and no jog took that long.

"I got lost," he said weakly. Something in his voice made Squall's mood shift. He stepped forward and plucked a leaf from Laguna's hair then tilted his face up, looking into his eyes with anger and bald hunger. "Come to bed."

"Yes."

 

* * *

 

He awoke next to Squall, spent a lazy day with Squall, and thought only of Squall. The night before had already faded from his mind though the knowledge that something was wrong had not.

And then it was just another night. Routine perfected.

A cool darkness ravishing the world outside. Laguna and Squall tangled together on the bay seat, immune. The windows fogged. A hand slapped against one pane and moonlight broke through the glass.

Sweating like this, moving like this, being fucked like this, Laguna could forget the fact that something seemed to be eating away at him from the inside. He could drown those feelings in this, the tide rising each time Squall crested inside him.

"Tell me," Squall growled and thrust harder, pushing in and holding until Laguna felt like a hot brand was growing inside him, alive and thick.

"It feels good," he answered without hesitation. "I love how you feel inside me."

"What do you want?" Squall thrust again and Laguna shuddered.

Sweat sprayed across the wall as he tossed his head. "More."

Always, always  _more_.

 

* * *

 

Just another day. Almost.

When Squall got home, Laguna was staring dazedly at a blinking curser on a stark white screen. Had apparently been staring at it for some time. He kissed the top of his head and then dropped his hands onto his father's shoulders, studying the computer screen. "What do you have there?"

"My latest masterpiece," Laguna said. The usual humor was there in his voice, but it sounded like someone had beaten it down. "What do you think? Big seller?"

Squall could think of nothing to say. He'd never known Laguna to be at a loss for words when he wrote. True, he got tongue-tied and flustered when he spoke sometimes, but never with a keyboard at his fingers. Laguna's writing at its worse was still quality and came easily to him.

"I think," Squall said carefully, looking around like grasping at straws, "that if you put another book on that desk, it's going to collapse."

Laguna looked at the desk in question and chuckled. "Don't be silly. That desk is older than you. It's a hale old thing." He reached a hand across the space and gave it a loving slap.

THUD

Laguna stood and stared in dismay at the sight of his research jumbled on the floor between the neatly split halves of his desk.

"I'll be damned," he said.

Squall crossed his arms. "I won't say 'I told you so', but only because I don't want to sleep on the couch."

 

* * *

 

Squall came back from work the following evening with a big box that he dragged up the front steps with a cat-that-ate-the-cream smile.

He propped the cardboard box up against the wall and patted it proudly. "Now  _this one_  probably won't last as long as Old Faithful over there, but at least it will get your books off the floor."

Laguna fought the indulgent smile that pulled at the left side of his mouth. He lost.

"It's wonderful. Come here, you," he said and grabbed Squall to thank him properly for his thoughtfulness.

"Laguna," Squall panted and pushed him back gently, "I...I have to put the thing together and I can't do that with you doing  _that_."

Laguna slid his hands from Squall's slacks. "Sorry."

"I'm sure," Squall deadpanned and then slapped Laguna on the ass. "Now go do something useful."

Laguna shuffled off, playing obedient very well for the moment. He smiled to himself. Everything was perfectly normal here. It was the same as it always was. A stinging pain on his chest told him that he was fooling himself. If only he could remember...

He refused to let his good mood be ruined. So he padded up the stairs, read a little, listened to music, and then decided to run a bath. He slowly lowered his tired body into the hot water and sighed, feeling more at home than he had since...since...

But after all he  _couldn't_  remember. Yet something had been bothering him. Something that made him afraid and excited all at once. Something that made him doubt that he deserved Squall at all.

He sunk lower into the water, as if he could disappear if he tried hard enough, luxuriating in the way it lapped at his skin. It hit a tender place on his chest and he hissed, jerking out of the water at the way it stung.

"Damn," he cursed and then touched the wounds—three, inch-long gashes—surprised at how uneven and dry they felt. The sting faded, but in its place was a terrible itch. He tried his best to bathe and relax, but eventually had to give up, the itching distracting him too badly. He washed quickly, drained the tub, toweled off his body and long hair, and then slid into the heavy robe he was so fond of—a present from Squall last Christmas. Then, curious, he wiped a hand across the mirror to clear away the steam, the better to inspect his chest. They looked like...animal scratches. Almost like a cat scratch, but too big and deep for that.

He scratched at them, wincing when a scab caught under his fingernail and came loose. The freshly opened cut began bleeding again immediately. Laguna stopped breathing as his eye caught on the drop of red, enchanted by the way light reflected off the smooth surface.

His heart slowed—like a children's music box coming to a standstill—and suddenly, he could hear everything around him with his heartbeat as a background to it all. He could hear the steady drip, drip of the kitchen sink and the fluttering of the curtains in the bedroom down the hall. The beating wings of a bird outside the window sounding like the blaring hum of a helicopter. He could hear the clank of a screwdriver against metal, a ratchet falling onto carpet. Squall, putting together the desk.

He licked his lips. The thought came to him as clearly to him as daybreak after a storm:  _I hunger for him._

And there was no denying the truth in that. He felt a gaping emptiness from his stomach up telling him that Squall was what he needed to fill that space and make him whole again. He  _needed_  him as much as ever and still more.

Now.

 

* * *

 

"Squall," he heard just as he finished securing the rest where the keyboard was to sit. It was a curious tone of voice, calm and soft, but demanding.

"Hmfh?" he asked, screwdriver clenched between his teeth.

"Squall," Laguna repeated in the same strange voice.

Squall slid from underneath the desk and sat up. "Uhhts aa maata?"

The screwdriver dropped from his teeth as his mouth fell open. He swallowed heavily, his throat suddenly dry.

Laguna stood before him, still damp from the bath, dark hair tumbling around his pale face and his bathrobe covering almost nothing as it drooped around his shoulders. He leaned on the doorframe heavily and his eyes were aflame with lust. "Aren't you finished yet?" he whispered and every syllable was an invitation.

"I...I think I am," Squall said and hurried to his feet.

"Good."

Laguna turned and walked sensually from the room with a lingering, alluring look over his shoulder.

Squall followed, intrigued by this new game. This wasn't like Laguna at all, who was usually more docile about sex, preferring to be chased than to chase. Sometimes, Squall had to admit that he got tired of always being the one to initiate things. Every now and then he wanted Laguna to show him what he wanted; to show how much he wanted Squall. Laguna, aggressive and demanding like this, was a fantasy brought to life.

Up the stairs they went, and Squall kept his eyes glued on the skin the robe revealed to him as he followed Laguna to the second floor.

Laguna undid the belt of his robe and let it fall in the center of the hallway. There were walls and doors and pictures—graduations and holidays and birthdays—all around, but all Squall could see was the long, pale expanse of Laguna's back and ass and legs and he walked without shame down the hall.

When he should have turned the corner for the bedroom they had shared for years, he instead turned at what had been Squall's room before everything changed.

He stepped into the long abandoned room that had boxes stacked in one corner, and spun around, looking at the space with fathomless eyes that seemed somehow sinister.

"What are we doing in here?" Squall asked, hesitating in the doorway.

"We've never done it in here, have we?"

"...No."

"I think we should."

"Our bed's bigger," Squall countered, wondering why the idea of sex in this room—on that bed—disturbed him. All around were relics from a childhood that he had always resented. This was a child's room with a child's toys and posters. Being around them took him back to a time he wanted to stay where it was: in the past. He didn't want Laguna to ever look at him again the way that he had looked at the child who used to sleep here.

Squall had gone to war and crawled back home with his life and little else, injured and bitter with a medal identical to the one Laguna had earned. He'd done it for one reason. Yet Laguna had still looked at him with the eyes of a proud parent. Still unconvinced or unaware that he was what he had been for a long time: a man with needs. One need in particular.

Laguna moved closer to the bed against the wall. That damned bed, where Squall had spent countless nights in frustration. In the war, he'd rushed into battles and stared men in the eye as he took their lives. But he hadn't been able to walk twenty steps down the hall to demand what he wanted from Laguna. He'd been a coward.

All that was over now, but this room reminded him of the waiting, the wishing and regretting. He hated it.

"Yes, but we always fuck  _there_. This room would be more meaningful, don't you think?" Laguna asked and fingered the lace of the curtains lovingly. "It can be a little fantasy for me. Maybe for both of us. We can pretend we're back all those years ago, when you were just a boy. After all, I wanted you when you slept here, too."

Squall froze. "No, Laguna, you didn't."

Laguna laughed at him, then crawled across the somewhat dusty sheets of the too-small bed. He stretched out on his back and spread his legs, his half-hard cock drawing Squall's attention. Laguna ran a hand over his body, lazy sweeps over his chest and then a long trip down to his naval. He arched into his own hand.

"Do you know that for sure? For all you know I wanted you for years and let you suffer in here alone, knowing that you wanted me, too. Maybe I  _wanted_  to sneak in here and touch you from the day you moved in, but wouldn't because I was punishing you. Or punishing myself." He circled a nipple lightly with his finger, teasing himself, never breaking eye contact. "Then again, sometimes you sleep so heavily. Maybe I  _did_  sneak in and touch you, pulled down your pajamas and licked you everywhere I wanted to. Slid my fingers into you while you dreamed."

Squall flinched.

"Maybe," Laguna continued cruelly, "you just don't remember me fucking you all those years ago."

Squall's eyes were narrowed as he approached his lover—his father.

"You know none of that's true."

"But do  _you?_ And don't you want it to be true, just a little?"

The bed sank as Squall knelt beside Laguna. "No," he said.

"Liar."

Leaning over him and staring into his eyes worriedly, Squall asked, "What's wrong with you?"

The pupils of Laguna's eyes were stretched unnaturally and the green was nothing more than a sliver at the edges. And around that edge was a malicious looking ring of red.

"What's gotten into you? This isn't you," Squall said. And then his eyes drifted to the gruesome gashes of red on his chest. How had he missed them before?

"What the—"

Which is when Laguna lunged up, pulled Squall down and rolled him onto his back. It was too easy to hold his hands above his head and watch him squirm beneath him. Squall struggled to free his hands and the fact that he couldn't made him panic. Laguna's military training had made him a weapons specialist the likes the world had never seen before, but physically, Squall always had him beat. That is, until today.

"You're beautiful," Laguna purred and lowered his head to suck a path from Squall's chest to his neck where he spent a considerable length of time, laving the pulse that thundered beneath his tongue.

"Let go."

"But you like me like this," Laguna said and shifted both Squall's wrists to one hand easily while using the other to free Squall from his pants. "See?" he said, stroking the hard proof that Squall wanted this.

"I like you the other way, better."

"Really?" Laguna suddenly looked meek and cast his eyes to the side. "Oh, Squall," he said quietly, "I'm too shy to say what I want when we fuck. It's easier when I just give in to what  _you_  want. So please dominate me and take care of me. I'm so in love with you I'll always be here waiting for you like a dog when you come home. I want you to hold me down and make me like it."

His eyes snapped fire. "Is that better?"

"Stop this, you're not yourself. What are those scars?"

"I'm more like myself than I've been in years," Laguna argued and kissed him hard. Squall fought to not kiss him back, but it wasn't possible. No matter what the man became, he still wanted Laguna. Not kissing him would be like denying himself air.

So he kissed him back and, as if it would make him return to himself, tried to put everything he felt into it. The fear, the want, the—

Laguna's eyes cleared as if the message had gotten through. He pulled back with pleading, frightened eyes.

"Help me," he whispered.

"Laguna?"

"Squall, I can't stop myself I—"

The darkness crept in around his pupils again, the red flaring up like fire. His free hand tore Squall's button-down open, buttons flying in every direction, and then went to the drawer beside the bed that Squall had used as a teenager. Inside was a bottle of lotion.

"Did this come in handy back then?" Laguna sneered and flipped the lid open with his thumb and then squeezed a huge dollop onto Squall's flat stomach. He scooped it up and smeared it on Squall's cock before sitting up on his knees, maintaining his hold on his wrists.

"Don't," Squall warned.

"Too late." And with that, he positioned his body and, without any preparation, slid down, filling himself with the thick, hot length of Squall's cock in one thrust.

He screamed.

"Laguna!" Squall yelled and twisted free when the grasp on his wrists loosened. He caught Laguna as he tumbled forward and held him, unsure of what to do.

 _What was he thinking?_ Squall wondered, trembling in terror and lust.  _It was almost as if he wanted the pain._

In the silence that followed, he could hear the excruciating, shocked little puffs of air coming from Laguna's bruised lips.

"Squall," he said weakly.

He stroked the long damp hair that fell around Laguna's face. "I'm here, are you hurt?"

"I—"

"Are you hurt?"

"I  _need_  you."

Squall struggled to lift him off, desperate to ascertain if he was hurt. No matter how good it felt being inside Laguna like this, he had to know if he was all right. But his strange new strength was back and he wouldn't budge. Squall gave up.

"I...need you too," he said and couldn't recall the last time he'd actually said the words that Laguna no doubt  _wanted_  to hear. Laguna always let him off the hook when the awkward moment came, knowing it was difficult for him to admit anything like that. But now, he knew what a fool he was. He should have said it everyday. Because now it was as clear as if someone had written it in the sky: he was losing him. Even if they had the passion that they always had, Laguna was pulling away. It was evident in the way he was saying these harsh things and using his body like a weapon in some battle of wills that Squall didn't understand.

"But...we can finish this later. You should rest. I need to be sure you're not hurt. Come on, get up."

"No, no. Please don't stop," Laguna pleaded, sounding more like himself. "I'm fine. I'm back. And I want this."

He sat up slowly, mechanically, as if every movement ached, and then lifted his hips only to slide them down again. "Nngh," he grunted and pressed his eyes together.

Squall stifled the groan of pleasure in his throat. Laguna's body was a perfect fit, warm and tight. "You  _are_  hurt," he forced himself to say as if afraid Laguna really would stop, but the concern  _was_  real. Just tainted.

"No, I just wasn't ready. Now I am."

And he wanted to believe him because the heat swallowing him over and over was so good and Laguna looked surreally beautiful, cast in dim light from the curtained window. His head dropped back as he swayed up and down, riding Squall at an increasingly frantic pace and that bluish moonlight loved him while he did it, moving over his muscles and the jut of his bones at rib and hip. He was too unearthly to be human, too ethereal.

Locking his elbows and bending down low, he brought his mouth to Squall's and it was hardly a full kiss—Squall reluctant to move too much and injure Laguna further and Laguna too engrossed in rolling his hips to take Squall in and in and deeper to maintain a kiss—but it was sweet, mostly tongue and teeth and Laguna's hair getting caught between their lips.

And it must have felt something close to good for Laguna, no matter what amount of pain he had caused himself because he tossed his head from side to side and settled more weight on his knees so he could anchor himself better and ride the cock inside him harder.

"You're...God...Laguna. How can you...?"

"I told you I needed you. I wanted you to...fill the void."

And those words, strange and primal, sent Squall into orgasm, hurling Laguna into the abyss with him. They came together, Squall screaming Laguna's name. Laguna merely slumped forward with a whimper and lazily kissed Squall's throat. He was usually so loud, but now he seemed stretched thin and exhausted.

As they drifted back down from the heights the unusual coupling had rocketed them to, Squall wondered if Laguna had gotten what he wanted, if the come draining from his body had filled the emptiness, or somehow made it worse. As gently as he could, he gathered him into his arms and carried him to the bathroom— _their_  bathroom.

He turned the shower on to the inferno heat that he knew Laguna liked—usually too strong for him. But this wasn't about him. He had to hold him against the wall to keep him from falling over and as Laguna leaned there, his head drooped and his eyes stayed closed. It was as if their lovemaking had drained the last of his strength.

He was always so tired lately. And now, he was behaving like another man entirely.

Squall squeezed his eyes closed, and then opened them once the panic was gone. Grabbing Laguna's washcloth and soaping it up, he dropped onto his knees and cleaned him carefully.

"I'm sorry," he said when Laguna hissed in pain.

"I'm okay."

"No, you're not." He stood and tilted Laguna's face up. "Look at me," he said. It seemed to take superhuman effort to open his eyes, but finally, he did.

"Don't—" he tried, but Squall interrupted.

"Is this it, then? Are we falling apart here? After all this time?"

Laguna looked shocked that he could even think so. "No, of course not." He dropped his eyes again, falling asleep where he stood. "I'd die without you."

Squall ran his eyes down Laguna's battered body. It looked as if he was dying anyway. Like he would one way or the other. With or without him.

To be continued...


	3. Blood

The following morning, they were able to pretend that everything was okay. There were the usual distractions as they prepared for the day: Squall unable to tie his tie with Laguna's hands gliding over his back and ass; Laguna incapable of making breakfast with Squall standing behind him, pressing in close and whispering in his ear about all the things they would do together that night.

And, as always, with a long, slow kiss before Squall opened the door, they parted with the same regret they parted every other day. It all seemed so normal.

But they had both felt the tension and both fought to ignore it. Every so often, Squall had opened his mouth as if to ask a difficult question. Somehow he never had, falling silent every time.

For Laguna's part, he couldn't remember much of the day before. He remembered taking a bath and he knew he had slept with Squall, but the details were fuzzy, like a veil had been pulled down over everything. Squall had touched him very slowly and gently all morning. Laguna was appreciative for the kid gloves because he was sore in ways he hadn't been in a long, long time. If only he could remember why.

And the sun bloody  _hurt_. He couldn't get away from it fast enough. And the weariness in his bones would not fade. He just needed to sleep, he told himself, and dragged his feet back to bed.

As he fell into a heavy slumber, he thought about the strange things happening to him, the odd way he felt all the time. He knew he was forgetting something integral to solving the puzzle, something to do with the odd scars on his chest. There were three of them now, as if someone were keeping score. But who and of what?

When he dreamed, it was all in red. An ocean of blood and he was swimming in it, making love to a dark haired man with eyes like the apocalypse in the center of the crimson.

"I can't wait any longer for you to come to me," the stranger said.

"I'm here," Laguna protested. "You already have me."

"No,  _he_  has you." He pointed to the distance where Squall stood, watching them with deadly intent. "You won't let him go."

"I...I can't," Laguna protested.

"And he won't let you go."

"He doesn't know how to."

The man looked disappointed and then resigned. He raised his fist, studied it, and then punched it through Laguna's chest. "I will have your heart," he said, holding up the beating, bloody mess. "One way or another."

Laguna woke up edgy and famished, just as the sun was setting.

Squall stood over him and was looking down at him with worry. "You were having a nightmare. Did you sleep all day?"

"I must have."

"You look awful."

"Flatterer. Give me five minutes and I can get up to cook."

Squall held up a forbidding hand. "You stay in bed. I'll cook."

Laguna pulled a smile that was a cheap imitation of his usual grin. "You're a real catch. Keep this up and I might propose."

"Ha, ha. Go back to bed. I'll bring up a tray."

That night, no matter how many times he promised Squall that he was fine and wanting, Squall only kissed him on the cheek and told him sternly to go to bed.

"There's always tomorrow," he said, sounding like he didn't even believe it himself. He held Laguna as he fell asleep as if afraid he might fade away.

Laguna, however, could not sleep. He imagined that the night called to him like a demanding lover, wanting to be embraced.

He was awake. Alert.

Squall looked peaceful, sleeping there with the blankets pushed off of him. Even in the chill of October, he didn't really need them. He always liked the cold and almost wilted like a hothouse flower in the summer. Wintertime made him bloom. Laguna always got a kick out of the fact that he was the opposite, hating the cold and worshipping the sun.

They were nothing alike, were they?

And something  _was_ calling him. A sweet siren's song wrapping around him as if the chords and notes were heavy wire, trapping him and pulling at him. The tension in the air pushed him forward, told him not to fight it.

He slid out of bed, taking one of the discarded blankets with him, and felt an ache he couldn't place staring down at Squall. He'd built his life around this man, first as a father and now as a lover. If it all ended, what would he have left?

He turned his back on Squall and the ache he caused.

He pulled the blanket around his shoulders and took the stairs, going where the voice beckoned him. Outside, the wind whipped the trees tornado-like and the leaves swirled and whirled, cackling dry laughter as they struck the pavement.

And in the center of the impromptu storm, stood Vincent, dressed in a red coat that danced around his tall body like a nymph at play. His dark hair joined in the wild celebration, untamed and liquid.

"Come to me," he said and opened his arms. Laguna didn't move.

"I'm afraid," he admitted. "I can't live like this."

"You mean without  _him_?" Vincent hissed.

Laguna didn't answer; there was no reason to. Unlike those times when they had walked down this very street and soaked up the pleasant autumn air together, now there was nothing but confusion between them.

Vincent looked off into the distance and began speaking with a voice that seemed to come from the far off place he gazed at. "I have lived through the centuries, alone, suffering. I never imagined an end could come but I had hope that it might. You are that hope. I no longer envision the future as one spent alone with my solitude."

He held out a hand, the sharpened tips of his fingernails white and deadly in the moonlight. "I can give you forever."

"All I want is Squall."

Laguna staggered back when Vincent suddenly stood before him, eyes pained. Preternatural speed and grace made the movement complete in the blink of an eye. He looked older than Laguna had ever seen him. "I know you're not telling the whole truth. You answered my call. You came to me. That means that a part of you wants this."

"You fascinate me, but I—"

"Silence," Vincent said and pressed a finger to Laguna's lips. "I have something I want to show you. We can argue later. But first, will you join me?"

Laguna looked back nervously at the house as if he could see through the walls to where Squall rested.

"I can't be gone too long," he mumbled.

Vincent barely managed to hide his displeasure. "I will return you to  _him_ , if that's what you want."

"It is."

Without a reply, he swept Laguna into his arms and rose into the air. Together, they drifted high above the world, only the thin blanket and the folds of Vincent's cape blocking the biting cold wind. The sky above was calm velvet and the ground below a chaos of lights and motion. He huddled against Vincent and closed his eyes.

They touched down atop the highest building downtown, the spire thrusting into the sky proudly behind them. Vincent appeared unfazed by the dizzying heights, but Laguna tentatively looked over the ledge. He tugged the blanket around him and kept his back to Vincent.

Vincent looked out across the dark and dotted white of the ground. "This is my favorite place in your city. I have seen the world through the ages and never found a scene as peaceful as this. I wanted you to see it."

"Why me?"

Vincent gestured grandly at the world around them. "You, like this picturesque scene, are unique. Believe me when I say that there is no soul in the world identical to yours. I've waited five lifetimes for you."

Laguna looked over his shoulder, his expression unusually cold. "I remind you of someone you lost?"

Vincent opened his mouth as if he were about to contradict him, to explain in detail the depth of what he meant. Instead, he settled on the simple answer. "Yes. You could say that you do."

"Who was he?"

Vincent took his time in answering. "He was beyond anyone, beyond anything. I thought I could own him."

Laguna smiled sadly at the irony that Vincent, after hundreds of years, hadn't learned from that mistake. "What happened?"

"He was reckless and died before his time. I couldn't save him. In many ways, you are like him: vibrant and loving and good. Passionate. But you are different too and I find those differences intriguing. Unlike the one I lost, you are far from reckless. You are thoughtful and modest and even overcautious. I...I wish he had been more so."

As he spoke, he approached slowly until he stood behind Laguna. Tentatively, he extended a hand and rested it on Laguna's shoulder. He sighed when Laguna leaned back against him and then boldly enfolded him in his arms.

"What you're doing to me is changing me," Laguna said quietly. "I can't write. I have nightmares. The things I said to Squall...they were awful."

Vincent closed his eyes and kissed the skin beneath Laguna's ear, his finger stroking the sensitive skin below that. "It will not last. After the change is complete, you will be yourself again. Forever."

"Forever. That's a long time, Vincent."

"Not nearly long enough," he said and turned Laguna in his arms. With a steady hand, he pushed the blanket down and off his shoulders and the wind caught it, sending it tumbling like a restless spirit on the wind. Laguna shivered, bare to the waist, but Vincent stroked a hand down his cheek lovingly. His hands were cold as always, but there was warmth in the touch. It was anticipation that made him shiver a second time.

"This time there are no restrictions," Vincent said, and gestured slowly with his pale hand. Laguna slumped in his arms, vulnerable as a sacrificial lamb. "I will taste you as I long to taste you. No more compromises. No more bargains. This belongs to me."

Laguna did not need to hear more, he knew what Vincent wanted. And he didn't fight—couldn't fight—as his head was tilted, his neck exposed. Vincent slowly moved closer, his lips like flower pedals, his breathing uneven through his parted, starving lips.

Trancelike, Laguna called out to him. "Vincent..."

The stab of fangs through the skin made his knees go weak. Only Vincent kept him from slipping over the edge, both of his mind and of the world. Everything was this man; the world, the air he breathed, the stretch of time far back and into the future and all the events in between.

Every pull at the open wound, every gush of the blood from his body made him cry out and shudder as if it were more than just his essence been stolen. Laguna again felt the stirring in his belly, the cresting of passion. Only this time, it owned his soul and ravished his body. He clawed at the heavy cloth covering Vincent's shoulders and made pleading noises.

"Stop. It's too much. I can't..." he moaned. "It's...God...what are you...doing to me?" He arched up high and then froze on a cry as he came.

Vincent caught him as he tumbled down and then knelt with him on the cold ground of the tower's roof. Laguna fluttered on the edges of consciousness. Pale and wan, he looked like a different man entirely.

"What am I doing?" Vincent repeated and let his fingers take their fill of Laguna's skin. "Sadly for Squall, I am stealing you away from him." He opened his shirt one button at a time and then pierced his own skin, a thick stream flowing down his body. Effortlessly, he shifted Laguna in his arms, bringing the other man's mouth close to his chest. "And if I can," he said, "I will make you forget him."

Laguna looked at the stream of blood with the eyes of a starving man. Vincent brought him closer. "Drink," he whispered. "I have drained you of almost everything you were before. Now you are weak, hungry. This will make that hunger fade."

He moaned, as Laguna greedily latched onto the wound and drank deeply, loving the feel of his mouth. "It will make you—" he began, then cried out in surprise and pleasure as Laguna sucked harder, his hands moving gently over Vincent's body.

"Mine."

* * *

Squall sleepily came down the stairs and thrilled at the smell of coffee brewing. He poured himself a cup, took a long sip and felt his vision sharpen as if by magic. "That's good. Thanks."

Laguna startled and dropped the knife he was using to cut an apple. Eyes wide, he whirled to face him and steadied himself on the counter. "Bloody hell, I didn't hear you come in. You almost gave me a heart attack."

"Sorry about that."

Laguna didn't answer, but simply stared at him with a questioning, friendly smile. "Hullo," he said.

"Hello."

"How do you do?"

And that gave Squall a moment's shock. "I-I'm fine, thank you. And you?"

"Very fine, thank you."

"Oh. Well, then. Good."

"I'm Laguna. And yourself?"

"...Squall."

"Well I'm being rude, aren't I! Do you like fruit? Pancakes? I'm making breakfast, would you like some?"

"Please," Squall said, truly puzzled at exchanging first time pleasantries with the man he'd been sleeping with for years. He felt as if he were looking at the world sideways. Then everything became clear. Suddenly, he broke into a laugh, stalked up to Laguna, arched him back over the counter and kissed him good morning. Laguna was always such a joker, he thought as he pressed in closer.

It was as easy as ever to map out the contours of his mouth, taste the toothpaste mint and savor the texture of his smooth white teeth.

When he pulled back, Laguna was gazing at him with awe and a satisfied grin. "Wow. You must make friends easily if you kiss everybody you meet like that. Where'd you learn to do that?"

Squall stopped smiling and backed up slowly. "From you," he said and placed his hand on Laguna's forehead, checking for a fever.

Laguna bore the examination patiently, looking pleased and surprised with Squall's answer. "Me? Well then I'm a good teacher." He lifted a hand and shyly touched Squall's jaw, and then moved up and across his forehead to run a finger down the scar between his eyes. "You're really very handsome, aren't you? But what happened here?"

Squall swallowed heavily. "I brought a knife to a gun fight." And that made Laguna laugh and it was genuine and familiar, which just made Squall wince.

"Hey, listen, how about that breakfast?" Laguna said and pushed up the sleeves of his turtleneck. "You look a little skinny. Doesn't anybody feed you?"

"Um...Thanks, I'm starving."

So Laguna finished making breakfast and overloaded Squall's plate, urging him to eat just like he had when Squall was fifteen. He watched him busy about the kitchen, pouring orange juice and rummaging for syrup and noticed that he stayed as far away from the windows as possible. He didn't eat anything.

"I have to go to work now," Squall said quietly. "I'll be back around seven," he added, not sure what kind of reaction that would get.

"Oh, well that will be nice. I don't get a lot of company. Just ring the bell, I'm always home." And hearing that was a sharp slap across the face.

"O-okay. Right."

As always, Laguna walked him to the door and stood by watchfully as he put on his coat. Habit and need made him reach out, despite the warnings in his mind telling him to let it go, to push Laguna up against a wall and take the goodbye kiss that was rightfully his.

Laguna responded beautifully, as if his body remembered even if his mind couldn't. He pushed closer and maneuvered Squall's hands around his back and the only thing Squall could do was hold him tighter. When he felt the moisture of a tear he broke the kiss. Laguna was crying.

"Oh, sorry, I don't know why I'm doing that," he said, and wiped at his eyes.

"Laguna—"

"No, no, don't you go worrying, young man. Get to work and come back to visit me tonight. Okay?"

"It's a deal," Squall said and ran from the house.

Laguna stood in the door as long as he could and watched as the charming young man mounted a sleek-looking black motorcycle and tore down the street. "Be safe," he whispered and then closed the door against the burning heat of the distant autumn sun.

* * *

Laguna was asleep again when he came home. He woke him gently with a hand on his shoulder.

"Squall?"

He choked back the strange thickness in his throat and nodded, afraid to speak. Finally, he found his voice. "Yes, it's me. How do you feel?"

"Like I got hit with a sledgehammer. How was work?"

"Forget about that. Come here," he said and climbed into bed, fully clothed and with his shoes on, which made Laguna open his mouth to complain, but when he felt the desperate way that Squall held him, he let the words go unsaid.

"Hey, what's all this about? You act like you haven't seen me in a year."

"Just be quiet," Squall said and molded their bodies together more securely. "Just let me have this."

Laguna smiled sleepily. "You can have everything. You know that."

But Squall only shook his head. He felt as if all he could have was the scraps that were left.

"Please don't forget me."

"I could never forget you," Laguna said and yawned.

Laguna was already asleep when Squall whispered, "You already have."

* * *

The next morning, Laguna didn't wake at all. He was breathing, albeit it was so deep and infrequent that he looked dead. He didn't even shift or squirm. Rolling him gently onto his back, Squall saw the infected looking bite on his neck, as if a small dog had latched onto his neck and refused to let go.

Squall called the doctor at 8:00 and was in the emergency room by 8:30.

He watched in terror as they wheeled Laguna away, behind the heavy doors. He'd seen his father in a hospital, he decided, far too many times. He was sick of it. A friendly looking nurse patted him on the shoulder. "He'll be okay," she said.

And he wanted to believe her. Laguna had always pulled through before, but this time felt different.

"I don't know what to tell you," the doctor said several hours later. "He's low on everything. Blood, white blood cells, plasma, blood sugar. It's like he's been drained."

Squall recalled the unusual scars he had seen on his chest. The vicious gash on his neck.

"Is it an illness?"

"Nope, he's in perfect health. We're keeping his fluids up and hoping that he'll wake up once his levels return to normal. You're welcome to go in and see him."

So Squall went in to the dimly lit private room and sat next to the high bed. Laguna looked as if he might fade away. His skin had no color left and his dark hair made the whiteness even more stark. "What's happening to you?" he whispered and fell asleep holding Laguna's hand.

He dreamt of Laguna dangling from a hook as blood dripped from a brutal gash over his heart, pouring into a pan on the ground. Out of the surrounding darkness, wolves stalked and approached the pan, their heavy tongues lapping at the pool. Drops of red splattered everywhere as they drank.

The doctor woke him. "I'm sorry," she said and looked like she meant it, "but you can't stay here any longer. We're relocating him for the transfusion in the morning."

"Transfusion?"

"Yes, we've got a matching type stored from several years ago. It's your blood, actually and we're lucky to have it. He's lost a lot of blood and I'll be damned if I know how. His system is going to crash without a transfusion. We're getting him in as soon as possible. There are some forms for you to sign at the front. Can you do that for me?"

"Uh, yeah. No problem."

"Thanks, we appreciate it. It's a very safe procedure and one that he's had before, as you know. He'll be fine. Other than that, you can come and see him again tomorrow evening."

Squall left the hospital, walking each painful step with his head up. Then he stood outside on the sidewalk and lost track of time as darkness stormed the world. Suddenly, he looked back at the building, at the windows.

The moon hovered pale and cold, unconcerned with his inner conflict. He hesitated and then came to a decision.

* * *

They wheeled his bed into a comfortable, single room; tried to make him feel at home. The nurses with nothing too pressing occupying their time made up reasons to sneak in to Laguna's room. Later they would gather around the coffee machine and excitedly discuss the famous and handsome author.

The minute the last nurse was gone with a twanging, "We'll be back to check on you in half an hour, sweetie," Vincent came for him.

He appeared, standing before the window, dressed in black and red and his eyes piercing the darkness, almost glowing. Laguna lay in bed unconscious, breathing raggedly.

"Don't be afraid. I'm here now," Vincent said. He knew that a part of Laguna could hear him, even if his body was all but comatose.

Vincent took Laguna's thin arm in his, frowning at the tube dangling from it. Then he leaned down and dragged his limp body up into his embrace. "I've waited so long," he said, and tilted Laguna's head to the side.

And then, without another moment's delay, pierced the wounded skin of his neck and drank, taking more than he ever had, savoring the taste of his life flowing away and away.

He dropped Laguna's body back onto the bed. A high-pitched beep ring stabbed the air. Inside Laguna, buried beneath all the drugs and the weakness of blood loss, he rolled his eyes. That noise. He was really, really sick of that noise. He'd lost count of all the times he'd heard that  _stupid_  noise.

"Oh, it's you again," he mumbled and realized that his voice hadn't made a sound in any real place he knew of. At the foot of the bed, Death stood, draped in frayed black, skeletal and rotting. Behind him, a dark, black barren wasteland seemed to stretch into eternity. All the trees were dead and, crowded at the border, the hordes gathered like an army fixated on him, greedy for him to join them.

"Bugger off," he told them. And no, his real eyes weren't seeing this, weren't even open. It didn't make it any less real.

Death seemed to shrug his shoulders as if to say, "Sorry about them, you know how they are. And, hey, long time no see. How's your son?"

"Uh. Great."

"Good to hear. Still sleeping with him?"

"Old habits die hard. Um, look, can you give me a minute here?"

Death shrugged again. "Hell, I've waited this long."

Laguna looked away from him. Death really  _could_ wait. He'd always been an accommodating bastard in Laguna's experience.

The world where real things walked and existed was so quiet. He could hear his own fading breaths like a steam engine slowly puttering out.

"What are you doing?" he asked Vincent, his voice once again only sounding inside his mind, on the edge of the borderland where he teetered.

He received no answer. Vincent had bitten into his own wrist the blood welling up immediately. "I've bled you to the point of death. There is nothing of what you were left. If you do not drink, you will die. This is the end," he said. "Let me inside you. Become  _truly_  mine"

"No," Laguna tried to say. "I don't want  _you_  inside me. I've already got an occupant. I'm Squall's," but Vincent couldn't hear him. Laguna realized that being dead had more than one disadvantage besides Death's bad company.

Death polished his nails on his cloak, content to wait.

Raising his wrist above Laguna's open mouth, Vincent made a fist. The first drop missed, splattering somewhere to the left of his mouth. The rest, however, slipped over his tongue and teeth and then trickled down his throat.

The taste of it, perfect and heavy, made Laguna forget his protests. Swallowing, he felt  _alive_  for the first time in days. He blinked and realized that he really had. And maybe somewhere a nervous nurse had been rushing to check on him, but now she would turn around and blame it on machine failure because his heartbeat was strong once again and that damn beeping noise had finally, finally stopped. Or maybe, just maybe, something about Vincent kept the nurses and the aides and doctors away. What, really, did he know about the extent of what the man could do? Perhaps he could bend the world to his wishes.

Putting it from his mind, he enjoyed the taste of Vincent's blood.

He could sit up. He could take more of this delicious nectar. He clutched Vincent's wrist to him, wanting everything he had to offer.

"Yes, that's...good," Vincent moaned. Laguna watched Vincent's blissful face as he fed him and clutched harder at the wrist, gulping. And then suddenly he was watching a world he had never seen before, but that he understood Vincent had seen many times, perhaps centuries ago. It was bleached with snow and harsh, but had elements of beauty. The crags were sculptural and the frozen lakes seemed to glisten.

There was a boy. Only it wasn't just any boy, it was  _him_ , Laguna. He was running, running, always running. And Vincent was always two steps behind. Just as ghostly as he was now, Vincent reached out a hand and screamed a name that Laguna strained to hear.

Then it was just flashes: the boy crouching next to a coffin, curious and afraid; that same boy older and determined, pushing Vincent up against a wall and kissing him; and finally two bodies moving together in the dark, hidden from light and prying eyes. The last image was of a church draped in black and a mass of mourners sobbing into the night.

The spasms started seconds later. The first shot of pain made him drop Vincent's wrist and howl. The images were chased away by the lava flowing through his veins. He was dying.

Again.

Twice in the same day had to be a record.

Laying on the bed, jerking, Laguna watched as Death leaned in, ready to finally have this longstanding duel of wills, wits, and luck over with. The ghostly hand of the specter reaching into his chest and plucking at his heart felt like ice and steam all at once.

Death pulled back in surprise, wide-eyed and empty-handed. He cut a glare at Vincent.

"I win again," Vincent said, staring directly at the being. Death laughed without humor, then raised an illusory eyebrow at Laguna.

"Next time, we'll finish this," he seemed to say, and then walked away, impotent. The hordes looked furious. Denied again.

On the bed, Laguna had fallen still. The pain didn't melt away, but rather boiled, evaporated, and changed into ether pumping through his body.

"I can hear the world spinning," he commented matter-of-factly. Sitting up, he took in every corner of the room amazed by all the things he had never seen before with his human eyes. The shadows danced, even the curtains glowed with an aura. Vincent's possessiveness poured off of him in waves. He could feel a strong presence on the air, all around. A man—not Vincent—had been here, watching over him with anxiousness and want and helplessness. All of it lingered around him, on his fingertips from where the man had held Laguna's hand while he was unconscious. On his lips from when he'd kissed him when no one was around to see.

But who? He felt vacant like a bag emptied of its contents. Something important was missing. Something to do with the man whose name was a mystery to him. If he tried, he could almost see a face, but it...

A bout of dizziness overcame him. He wouldn't have minded so much if Vincent hadn't look worried himself.

"Laguna? What's wrong?"

He tried to answer, but couldn't. He felt a trickle of blood stream from his nose down his face. At the corner of his eyes, the dark world waited for him. It didn't seem so improbable or undesirable now. He headed for it and some of the pain subsided. Death was walking away, but at Laguna's presence he turned around, surprised once more.

"You again? We've really got to stop meeting like this," he said jokingly and then listened to Laguna's explanation.

"Oh, so you can't stay, then?" he asked, sounding disappointed. "Well then, just come for a visit. Spot of tea? We've been waiting to entertain you for  _ages_."

Laguna considered it and then threw in the towel. Even Death's bad sense of humor was better than the pain of trying to remember a face he was certain he should never have been able to forget.

"If you don't mind," he said, "I know a great place."

"I'm pretty flexible," Death said with a smile. They walked off companionably together.

Vincent watched Laguna's body still as his soul passed into another world entirely and felt, for the first time, panic. He had done everything right. There weren't supposed to be complications like this. Seeing him breathing so deeply, dead to the world in mind and spirit, he wondered: what in the hell  _is_  Laguna? He was human, that was for sure, but normal humans didn't have reactions like this. Perhaps the military had done truly terrible things to him. Worse than Laguna let on to.

It could explain why, despite his best efforts, Laguna's soul remained oddly shaped and uneven. Part of it was off limits to him still.

"Please, pull through," he said, leaning in to rest his head on Laguna's chest. His heartbeat was still steady, but when he probed at the layers of his consciousness, he found that Laguna simply wasn't home. Had he gone somewhere when the pain became too great? "But where?" Vincent asked.

"Get away from him! Now!"

Vincent sat up slowly and cast a bemused, condescending expression at the young man in the doorway. How he'd managed to get in—to even reach the door at all—when no one was supposed to be able to was something he'd work out later.

"Ah, so you must be Squall," Vincent said and wiped a trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth. "We meet at last. I feel as if I know you already. You're in his blood. Like a virus, only I know the cure for you. He simply has to forget you."

"Back up."

"If you let me explain, I think you'll come to see things my way."

"No explaining. Get away from him!" Squall said and lunged. His attack was graceful even in so small a space. Had he been fighting any common soldier, the fight would have already been over. Vincent was not common in any way.

Squall felt his body crash into some invisible barrier. It sent him tumbling back and into the wall. He hit and slid down it with a groan.

"Don't make me do this the hard way, boy. Listen to me. I know that what you have together seems like all that matters in the world. I know that you feel that Laguna belongs to you. Believe me when I say that he does not. I've been searching for him for lifetimes, waiting for him to return to me. Now that I've found him again, I won't give up so easily."

Squall shook away the fog of pain and dizziness before pulling himself to his feet. "You're crazy. You think he's some reincarnated lover that you lost? You think you can just show up and take him because of that?"

Vincent looked at him with disdain. "You understand nothing. Laguna  _is_ mine. He has always been mine. This will hurt less if you just forget about him. He, in turn, has already forgotten about you."

"He would never forget about me unless  _you_  made him."

Vincent laughed. "I did that for his own good. He does have feelings for you, that I won't deny. But they do not extend beyond the fatherly."

"What we have is more than—"

"Yes, yes, I know." Vincent waved an irritated hand as he interrupted. "You have a  _physical_  relationship with Laguna. Sex. But have you ever noticed how self-sacrificing he is? Have you not noticed how far he's willing to go for you? He is a man of uncommon qualities, but if he believed it would make you happy, he would be willing to do all manner of unspeakable acts. He would lie, cheat, steal, and kill for you. And you, in all your selfishness, have forced him to do something he would have never done unprovoked, all to please you."

"Are you suggesting that I forced Laguna to—"

"Didn't you?  _Didn't_  you?" Vincent snapped. "It was you who pursued him, you who pushed and pushed until one day Laguna gave in. He would have gone on happily taking care of you as a father forever had you let him. Think of how your relationship works. He gives and gives and gives. You only take. You're emotionally and, often, physically unavailable to him. Besides the fact that you sleep together, how is what he does for you any different from what a loving father does for a son?"

And that Squall couldn't answer. He hung his head. "Leave us alone. Yes, our relationship isn't perfect, but it doesn't have to be. What we had was enough. It was enough until you showed up."

"No, it was enough for  _you_  while Laguna suffered through it. Let him go, boy. If you had any idea the pain and guilt he feels about how he touches you, you would have done so long ago. You would have never started this foolishness. He could have gone on forever taking care of you, which is all he wants. His desire to make you happy is so great that he  _allows_ you to use his body the way you want."

"Shut up."

"You wonder why he's so passive in bed, why he doesn't make demands on you—"

"SHUT UP!"

The look of superiority and condescension of Vincent's face was cruel.

"You are a child, still. And I have already won him because you were too afraid to say and do the things you needed to do to keep him. I pity you. I was once like you myself, so I know already the pain you will feel once he is gone forever. Heal yourself: let him go."

Saying that, he rose to his full height, leaned down and lifted Laguna's limp body into his arms. He turned his back on Squall and strode to the window.

Squall slid into stance and attacked. Again the barrier blocked him and sent him careening backwards.

Vincent looked over his shoulder and said, "Be glad that you are more than just his lover. I would have killed you were not for that."

And then he disappeared in a confusion of wind and smoke and the steady beat of wings on the air.

* * *

October was cold, but November was bitter in a way Squall had never experienced before.

That very day, the day he'd lost Laguna at the hospital, he'd sped to the quaint cluster of houses around his own and stormed to Vincent's door.

He'd readied himself to kick it in, noticing that the damn dog, the one Laguna had called the Hell Hound, was gone and nothing stood in his way. But the door had opened before he could plant his foot into it and a friendly looking couple had stepped out to greet him.

New neighbors. From one day to the next, they had new neighbors.

"Well, hello there, what can we do for you today?" the kindly husband had asked.

But when he questioned them about the previous owner, they said they'd been there for months.

"We used to have tea with your father, didn't he mention us?"

"Where  _is_  he?" Squall had growled.

The plump and grinning wife had suddenly stopped grinning and had taken a step away from him. "Who do you mean?"

"Vincent."

"I think you should leave," the husband had answered, suddenly not so kind.

He had searched across town, contacted the police, abused his military power, and more. Nothing had turned up. And that had been that. The trail was ice cold. Laguna was gone.

He sometimes wondered how it could be that his life had changed in the course of a few weeks. Sometimes he wondered how it could be that he was still alive when there was nothing around anymore to make life good. Time passed, but he didn't care to count the days.

At work, they joked about how he had gone from well-put-together to scruffy in the span of a week. His superior officers called him into their offices and commented on his poor performance and appearance recently. He'd lost ten pounds.

The desire to eat had abandoned him. That and the desire to shave and clean and read the newspaper or actually even go to work on most days.

The house was empty and cold. Sometimes he walked from room to room like a specter and tortured himself with all the memories. Laguna's office was a blessing and a curse. The room was drowning in all the things that had made Laguna, Laguna. His books, his battered old computer and fancy new laptop. The photos he kept pinned to the wall behind the desk of his friends and Squall as a boy of fifteen. He had a faded photo of his late wife next to another shot of Squall in his military regalia, hair short and expression serious. Old albums against one wall, stacks and stacks of scribbled-in notebooks, his stained teacup and his pencils sharpened to stubs. Everything about the room and the things in it showed what Laguna had valued and loved. And now he was gone.

Sometimes, Squall couldn't make himself go in there at all.

When he punched his hand through a wall one morning, he knew he was lost. He simply couldn't live like this anymore.

To be continued....


	4. Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Laguna tries to adjust to his new life with Vincent. But something -- or someone -- is missing.

Vincent hurried them inside, racing the sun, and shut the heavy doors tightly. "Please," he begged, leaning over Laguna's still, cooling body.

But Laguna wasn't aware of any of it. Not Vincent's worry, nor of his own bloodless face, pale and drawn. He awakened slowly, as if he had been on a long journey. 

"I thought I lost you," Vincent said on a relieved sigh.

Oddly, Laguna was fairly certain that he'd lost himself, too. Someplace green and safe where the greedy darkness inside Vincent and the pain caused by the mysterious face he couldn't recall could not touch him.

He'd stood and taken Vincent's hands. They no longer felt cold, but only because Laguna's hands were the same, chilly temperature. Finally safe from the horror of the sun, Vincent showed him the splendor and wealth of his home.

Laguna stood in the center of a golden ballroom and turned in a slow circle.

"This place, it's like something from a fairytale."

Then he pulled back the curtain onto a bright October morning. The sun hurt his eyes and felt too hot, but that was all. The pain was not so great that he couldn't appreciate the view.

"It's beautiful here," he said.

When Vincent hissed, he dropped the curtain and hurried to him. The other man's hand was smoking.

"I'm sorry...you may live in the light still, but I may not," Vincent said and hid the blackened hand behind his back. A minute later, when he stroked Laguna's face with it, it was as it always was: pale, cold, and unblemished.

Laguna finally asked what he had wanted to ask since noticing the changes to his body. His skin was almost white, his eyes oddly colored, and his nails hard and strong. His teeth were another story altogether. "What am I? Do I have to drink blood like you?"

Vincent embraced him. "No. You have a taste for it, at first. But you will not need it to survive. Eventually, you will come to need it. Food will hold no appeal. But you are not yet what I am. I could not force that upon you. Rather, I hoped you would come to want it naturally."

"Want what?" Laguna asked, staring up into blood red eyes.

"To stay with me forever. As you are now, you are stronger and you will live longer, but you are not immortal...I cannot die, Laguna. But there is a price to pay for my endless life. It may be too high for you. For the time being, I am happy to have you with me. That alone is enough. If in time you come to realize what I already know, that your place is with me for all time, you may choose that path. I would not deny you the gift this time. I will no longer deny myself the chance to keep you always."

But always was sounding a little uncomfortable. That first day, Vincent revealed yet another surprise.

"It's not so terrible," Vincent cooed and tried to push him forward.

"A bed, Vincent," Laguna repeated and stepped away from the low wooden box. "I want a normal bed with fluffy pillows and a warm body next to me. Besides, isn't this all a little over the top?" he asked.

Vincent only shook his head. "No matter how much I enjoy the idea of sleeping on a bed of satin with you, I cannot. You, yet, may embrace such...human behaviors. I must sleep here. I would like it if you would sleep with me here. I want to feel you against me while I sleep. We would be so close, always touching, always together."

Laguna felt his pulse quicken. "That sounds good," he admitted. "But...I need a bed. I'm sorry."

And so a bed was found, somewhere in one of the many unused room scattered through the old building. It was covered with soft sheets and a heavy comforter to keep out the chill. All the windows of the room were draped with curtains that looked more like ancient, heavy tapestries than anything. Not a drop of sunlight made it through, even at noon.

It was comfortable, but Laguna had trouble sleeping. The nightmares were making sleep difficult. And now forever was sounding pretty lonely, too.

Especially since, during the day, Vincent was not around. Laguna still woke early in the morning, as if he had an internal clock that told him he had things to do. He even stepped outside sometimes to feel the sunlight, though he could not stay long and had to wear sunglasses. But Vincent did not share the daylight hours with him. They only had the evenings together. Vincent stayed with him as long as he could. Sometimes he didn't go out at all, fighting off hunger, he admitted, by snacking on Laguna.

But at other times his hunger was too great and he would have to sweep out of the castle to hunt. He would return before sunrise: just as Laguna was getting ready to wake and do it all again. Other things about their relationship bothered Laguna.

They shared blood and kissed and touched. Vincent never took him. It was unusual to Laguna because Vincent's kisses promised such passion and pleasure, but when they exchanged blood, it was so intense that Laguna didn't mind. Not really.

* * *

 

Time has a way of getting away from you. Laguna knew he hadn't always lived here, but it was hard to remember where he'd lived before. Vincent had explained life at his castle to him that first day, so he had lived somewhere before. But where?

Even now, Vincent tried to comfort Laguna about the strange, expansive castle. It was early for it, but the ground outside was covered with snow.

"I don't like the cold," Laguna admitted to Vincent one particularly chilly morning.

Vincent was silent for a moment. "No, I don't suppose you do. But I will keep you warm. I will never let anything hurt you."

And the _again_ wasn't spoken, but it was as loud in the quiet moments after as if it had been.

He warned Laguna not to mind the shadows that seemed to follow him, the portraits that seemed alive and sinister.

One portrait in particular haunted Laguna. It made him feel like he was drowning in ice every time he saw it.

"Who is he? Why does he look like me?"

The boy was lovely and arrogant, dressed in velvets and lace fit for a king. Someone had spoiled him. His long blonde hair was worn carelessly over his shoulder and his full lips curled into a sensual smile.

"He was...he is," Vincent tried, but couldn't answer well. He was too busy staring at the portrait as if willing the boy to come to life and embrace him. "He is the only man I will ever love," Vincent admitted and turned to him.

"He's the man that I remind you of? You lost him a long time ago," Laguna said, cautiously, already fearing where this conversation would lead. It made him uncomfortable.

"Yes. And I went through _hell_ to find him again."

He kissed Laguna fiercely then and things were always less confusing when Vincent held him. When Vincent fed him the sweet honey of his blood.

But the portrait alone was not responsible for his feelings of disquiet. Even the odd noises that resounded through the halls were to be ignored. Laguna didn't know how to pull that off when every noise everywhere was loud and clear to him as bells. The wide interior of the rich castle was always dim and where it failed to be even that, it was black as midnight. All the furniture was heavy, all the carpets a red so deep they somehow made Laguna's stomach growl.

"It is the nature of this place," Vincent consoled him. "But nothing here will hurt you. Like me, this place loves you too much to be a threat."

Laguna squirmed and thanked him, but the castle never ceased to make him feel nervous. 

* * *

Time has a way...

A month went by this way. Two months.

Living with Vincent was nice, Laguna decided. More than that he really couldn't say.

Sometimes the pale man's praise and flattery made him nervous. For, even though he told him that hew as precious and loved all the time, he still rarely showed it with his body. It was as if he was afraid to touch Laguna, like he might somehow hurt him. Laguna felt that maybe a part of him had once wanted to hear sweet words, but that actions carried more weight with him now, as if he had learned to interpret them from someone. And Vincent needn't worry about hurting him either, that he knew for sure. He could sense that a little pain sometimes went a long way with him. It would have been nice if Vincent knew that little fact. Instead, Laguna got poetry and sweetness.

All very well and good, but if Vincent wanted him, he wished the guy would just push him down onto the nearest surface and make it very clear for everybody involved. Of course, sex wasn't everything, though Laguna knew he was fond of it.

They talked about many things together in the evenings for long, pleasant hours. Music and art and philosophy and history. Laguna was as interested in those things as he always had been. He could remember entire chapters of his favorite books and the lines to all his favorite movies slid off his tongue flawlessly. Sometimes he even wanted to write.

It was in other areas that confusion set in. Whole chunks of his life seemed to be missing. He couldn't find the reason for some of his behaviors, though he was certain he had to have them.

Why did he stop playing music at fifteen minutes till six everyday as if he didn't want to disturb someone? Why did he only sleep on the right side of his very big bed? Why did he perpetually brew coffee in the morning when neither he nor Vincent drank it? He could make sweet potato pie with his eyes closed but hated the damn things. Why did he want to bake something he wouldn't eat himself? Why did he bake and cook at all when Vincent didn't need to eat like normal humans and he ate less and less everyday?

Why did he stare at the clock, waiting for someone to come back who never did?

The only explanation he had was that something, or someone, was missing. All the blank empty places were supposed to be filled up with a life he no longer remembered. But whenever he felt like he was close to the answer, pain wracked his mind and his nose would bleed. Something wouldn't let him remember. Worse, when he drank from Vincent, his mind went blank again, taking away the tiny victories he had gained, the sound of a laugh, the touch of long fingers on his cheek.

It put an unpleasant twist on his life with Vincent.

That and Vincent's single-mindedness.

He wasn't unwilling, but more resigned than anything as he embraced the other man on his big bed one evening, trying to shift their bodies a little closer together. Sometimes, he wanted...

All the kisses had geared him up for more, but Vincent either didn't notice, or had no intention of giving in to his wants. Instead, he gently unbuttoned Laguna's collar and sunk his teeth in on a sigh.

It felt just as good as ever, but while he let the sensation sweep him away, he was staring at the left side of the bed, imagining a long, tan body lying beside him.

He came more from that than the delights of the blood.

Yes, something was missing. Everyday, things faded. The sound of a laugh he knew belonged to someone important. His nightmares worsened.

In them, he was always running.

They were gaining on him, relentless and bloodthirsty. It was so hard to run in the snow and he could no longer feel his feet or hands. If his pursuers did not kill him, the cold certainly would. Even though it was a dream—the same dream he'd been having for what seemed like a lifetime—the images still frightened him.

Because at the end of every dream, they always caught him. They always wrestled him to the ground, slashing at his body with their claws. The ice against his skin inescapable, just like these killers. And he'd thought he could bargain with them.

The one with the black eyes loomed over him, leaning in closer and closer with his sharp, white teeth.

"You made a mistake, boy. Did you think this gift free? It comes with a high price. Now you pay for it and you get nothing. If you live through this, tell your lover that he's next."

And then the mass of them fell upon him. They could have taken him in the snow; none of them were in any danger of dying from that. Instead, they half flew, half dragged him underground, far away from the castle, from Vincent. It was to be his final resting place, his tomb.

They left him alive for days, chained there, naked and bleeding from bites across his skin and from rips and tears deep inside him where no one could see. The blood dried to his thighs itched and flaked. He wasn't well enough to notice.

They came for him again—how long had it been since the last time?—and he pleaded with them to release him. When they didn't, he cried out to Vincent and asked for his help and forgiveness. No one heard him. With teeth and hands they ripped him to pieces again and again and he lost track of the pain, surrendered to the cold.

* * *

He awoke screaming when Vincent clasped his shoulders.

"Wake up. It's only a dream. It can't hurt you now," he said sadly.

Laguna looked at Vincent and took his hands in his. "It's not a dream, is it?"

"No," Vincent answered and then kissed him. "It is a memory, but it doesn't matter now. All it means is that you are, finally, returning to yourself. Soon, you will start to remember other things. When you do, know that this time will be different. What was done to y...to _him_ will never happen again. I'll protect you."

He exposed Laguna's neck and opened the wound once again, pleased by the taste that flowed over his tongue. That boy was almost gone. Laguna, day by day, became who he had always been, even when he hadn't known himself.

"You couldn't protect him," Laguna said gently and pressed his body closer. "The men that killed him were _your_ enemies."

Vincent swallowed and answered. "Yes, and he thought himself cleverer than all of us. He was no fool, but he behaved foolishly. You are different."

"Not so different or you wouldn't want me."

He pulled Laguna close and cradled him like a doll. "And there you are mistaken. I would want you anyway."

And Laguna wanted to believe him, as he rocked his hips, bringing himself closer to orgasm, and then gulped the blood that Vincent fed back to him. But he couldn't stifle the feeling that told him Vincent was lying. It went hand-in-hand with the feeling that promised him that once it had been different. In a time he could no longer recall, someone had wanted him for who he was now.

But, just like always, the minute the blood pooled in his belly, his uneasiness faded into nothing. He was Vincent's. This was all there was.

To be continued...


	5. Hunter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Squall begins his quest to find the monster who took Laguna. And Laguna, well, he keeps trying to live a life he can't remember.

Once he had thought that he couldn't sleep in the bed.  _Their_  bed, the only one in the house that mattered. He'd spent two weeks on the couch, but had given in eventually. He'd rather remember the feeling of Laguna beside him up here than try and make his absence hurt less by sleeping down there. He hadn't changed the sheets. The smell of Laguna clung to them and he would not lose that, too. On the worst nights, he exhausted himself trying to find some kind of satisfaction. Every time he brought himself off, it was to the image of Laguna beneath him, on top of him, simply sitting beside him. Fist pumping, he tried to make it taste and feel the same. He failed again and again, feeling worse when he came than he had before with the ache and need. It was empty relief.

Every day blended seamlessly into the next in ways that made him feel as if he were sleepwalking.

One day, he believed, he'd wake up and Laguna would be beside him again. He'd laugh, pull his hair back so he could kiss Squall without it getting in the way and then he'd say, "I was just playing a joke, like always. I'm here and I'm not leaving you."

Then they could make love for hours and spend the night wrapped up in, and around, each other.

He never woke up. The nightmare he was living just kept going on.

And he hated. He hated Vincent, and himself. Sometimes he hated Laguna for leaving him, for letting himself be taken away by that monster.

Finally, the hate turned into something else: determination. Not all of it was his own doing.

Things had been rocky between Squall and Kiros for a long time now. The loss of Laguna, one of he few things they had in common, helped mend the tear. It gave them something to get smashed together over one very lonely, very cold night. Squall poured both of them another liberal helping of scotch and slumped forward onto his elbows at the kitchen bar.

"You're killing yourself slowly like this. You should give up," Kiros said miserably. His body language suggested that he'd rather not be talking about what Laguna and Squall we're together, but that he couldn't think of a way around it. The white elephant in the room was making him squirm. "Just be glad you had him for as long as you did," he added with a wince. "Because he's...he's not coming back."

"Don't say that. He will come back."

The scowl Kiros sent him in answer could have paralyzed puppies. "Maybe he's waiting for you to come get him. Ever think of  _that_?"

Squall sat up and winced at the other man through a haze of alcohol. "Hmmph?"

"Yeah, that's what I said. You go get him. Kill the dragon. Save the day. Happily ever after and all that."

"You make it sound like (hic) you'll do it if I won't."

"Good, because that's exactly how it's supposed to sound. Get off your lazy arse and go do something or you don't deserve him. You don't deserve him anyway, but...whatever. What was I talking about (hic)?"

Squall frowned, smacked his lips together and then answered, "Arses."

"Yes. Here's to them!"

They clinked glasses and fell asleep leaning against each other, friends again in tragedy.

* * *

The following morning, Squall woke, shaved as he hadn't done in weeks, and came to a decision while looking at the haunted thing he had become. Kiros was right, he was killing himself and not all of it was unintentional.

He was too thin, too pale. He couldn't remember the last time he'd smiled.

He simply couldn't live like this. He needed Laguna and he'd be damned if he had to go another day without him. He was going to get him back. Kill the dragon, save the day. All of that. No matter what he had to become to make it happen.

One way or the other.

* * *

Little touches here and there announced Laguna's presence in the castle. Splashes of color appeared where there had been only black and blood red. Music could be heard blasting from a new study the minute he woke, and a constant supply of tea flowed in and out of the freshly scrubbed kitchen.

Vincent smiled half in amusement and loving graciousness. The rest was frustration. He had imagined Laguna spending every hour with him. Especially since he'd shortened his time out in the dark world even more to stay at home with him as much as possible. But the weeks had gone on this way with Laguna still slipping back into a routine that he shouldn't have at all. He still woke with the sun, which was against the very nature of what he was now.

Yes, this was a routine, one that revolved around Squall, who was supposed to be out of his system, out of his mind, out of his heart. The taste of him was weak now, so what was the cause of this behavior?

It wasn't as if Laguna's attentions to Vincent were lacking, they just weren't all that he wanted them to be. He wanted everything and, no matter how hard he tried, ended up with less than half. Squall, even in his absence, had the majority.

"Why are you cooking?" Vincent asked one day as he stumbled into the kitchen, still drowsy from a long day's sleep.

"Because it's almost six and he'll be home soon." He was so matter-of-fact, so relaxed with the idea that he didn't even turn around or stop what he was doing to answer.

Vincent's voice dropped into dangerous levels. " _Who_  will be home soon?"

Suddenly, the knife Laguna had been using to cut vegetables clattered to the floor. "I-I...I was sure someone was coming. I was waiting for them all day, sure that they'd be coming. I was...so happy to cook dinner for them."

"No one's coming, Laguna. It's just you and me."

Laguna turned then, looking flustered and lost. A tiny stream of blood flowed from his nose and he wiped it away. "Of course. Just you and me." He sounded crushed when he said it. To cover the fact, he shakily bent to retrieve the knife. His attention was too divided, his mind too distracted. No sooner had he cried out than Vincent was there. He brought the slash to his mouth and licked away the blood. Then, because one taste was never enough, he sucked the fingers into his mouth and drank. Laguna watched the tableau with heavily lidded eyes.

At first, the now familiar delicious taste of Laguna was all he noticed. It was intoxicating how his essence lingered at the back of his throat like this. But slowly, another taste overcame it, no less potent, but unwanted.

Him. The taste of  _him_. Just when he had thought he had succeeded in eliminating him, he was back, as strong as before.

Why did Laguna remember him? What could he do to make him forget?

He dropped Laguna's hand and they both watched as the wound closed rapidly until it was as if it had never been. Vincent backed away.

"What's wrong?" Laguna asked with genuine, almost fatherly concern.

"Nothing. I just had a terrible reminder: some things cannot be destroyed." He paused and looked at his hands, at Laguna's blood on his fingers. "And some things can never be brought back."

"What does that mean?"

Vincent lowered his head. "Nothing. You need to feed, you are weak." He held out his wrist in offering.

"I'm fine," Laguna protested and wouldn't take it, which seemed to upset Vincent even more.

"Then stay here, I must go."

With that he fled, leaving Laguna alone to decide what to do with a dinner for a guest that would never come.

* * *

Months into it and Squall could almost believe that the life he lived now wasn't so hard. Learning that all the things he hadn't even believed in as a kid were, all of them, true—that had been the first big step. Learning to walk fearlessly in the underbelly of the world, learning to see what he had so easily ignored before. There were things out there that no human wanted to believe in. Once he conquered his disbelief, conquering the monsters themselves was easy.

Which brought him to his current position.

The thing wasn't so tough. Mostly, Squall was disappointed. All the hype and this was the best their little ragtag underground had to offer.

From what Squall understood, this one went by the name "Ifrit." It had taken two weeks to track it down. All the gossip had it as a ruthless, cunning, and feared killer.

So much for that.

Here and there on the ground were clumps of thick fur, ripped out during the initial savvy. A bent and battered dumpster was testament to the damage a 500 pound body could do when launched through the air like a cannonball by a close range blast. And the blood streaming from the gashes and cuts on its arms and torso explained how Ifrit had ended up in its current position.

Squall pinned the thing up against the wall with his forearm at its thick neck. It's long jaws snapped at him, but were shy by inches.

"Okay, let's try this again," Squall intoned and moved his gunblade closer. "Where is he?"

Ifrit growled at him, red eyes hate-filled.

Squall backhanded it and listened to the satisfying noise of a tooth dropping to the pavement. "I'm really tired of asking you. I might let you live if you just give in."

Ifrit suddenly looked afraid. It now understood that it had been outclassed for the first time in its very long life. High above, the full moon seemed to laugh. For all the promises to the contrary that experience had given, the moon hadn't done any good tonight. Ifrit wasn't used to feeling powerless.

"I...I won't fight you," the creature barked. "You win. Release me and I'll tell you."

Squall took a step back and sheathed his gunblade. That simple, trusting gesture decided it for Ifrit. How could one justly attack a man who so easily put his trust in others? The answer was simple: Ifrit, at least, couldn't.

When Ifrit spoke, it was in a deep, rumbling voice not unlike an avalanche in the mountains. "You are on the right track. Closer than anyone has ever come before. Vincent is hard to find, but he is predictable. He always moves in the same patterns; always winters in his ancestral home."

"Can you tell me the way?"

And something in the young hero's voice made Ifrit tilt its head. "I remember now: I have heard stories about you. You are the one from those dark tales? The ones that say a warrior haunted by his own demons stalks our kind and our allies, seeking out the Ancient One. He cannot be defeated. Why do you hunt him?"

The young man looked Ifrit in the eye and the moonlight shadows had turned them black and cold. "He took something that belongs to me. I want it back."

"But look at how you live your life. Fighting one such as me on a night like this? Are you a fool? You may have beaten me, but I am not the strongest of my kind. One day you will meet someone stronger and die or be turned. Nothing he took could be worth your life or your humanity. Quit this foolish quest now before you get yourself killed."

"I can't. I won't."

Ifrit tilted its big, shaggy head once again. "He didn't take any  _thing_. He took some _one_ , didn't he?"

Squall clenched his fists. "Yes."

"Then you're a bigger fool than I thought trying to get them back. Whatever they are now, they aren't human anymore."

"I don't care. Tell me what I need to know and I'll leave you and your kind alone."

Settling onto its haunches, Ifrit considered the offer. "That is my wish. Very well, hunter, I will tell you."

Once the scarred hunter had departed with gruff thanks tossed over his shoulder, Ifrit licked at its slowly healing wounds. "Defeated by a lovesick fool," it grumbled. "Good luck, hunter. You will need it."

* * *

Vincent had taken more blood than usual today and though he knew that he now had a certain dependence on the blood, Laguna hadn't wanted to drink it. He'd fallen asleep shortly after and Vincent had held him, choosing to lie beside him rather than go out.

Laguna groaned painfully in his sleep and thrashed once, twice. Vincent pulled him closer. "I'm so sorry, beloved. I'm so sorry."

Laguna could hear him. He was trapped.

In the same cursed dream.

Himself, younger and blonde and cocky and arrogant. Only now he was beaten and too tired to run anymore. All he had wanted was to spend life forever with Vincent. He'd gone about it the wrong way.

And now he couldn't escape.

A voice spoke to him and made Laguna come to a halt. Up ahead, a man stood. He took a step forward, limping slightly, and pulled long brown hair back off his older face. His green eyes had the faintest lines at their corners.

"You know, you're like a woodpecker in a petrified forest. You keep doing the same thing and it's not really making a dent. Aren't you tired of running?"

And of course he was, but that wasn't the point. He ran because they chased them.

"Who, Laguna?" he asked himself. "Who's chasing you?"

He looked behind him and saw nothing but the vast white landscape. "No one," he whispered, confused.

"They caught you a long time ago. You died. It wasn't the first time, it won't be the last. You can rest now. No one is after us. And you have somewhere to be."

"What do you mean?" he asked and whirled back around, but the man was gone. In his place was...

_Him_. The one who teased Laguna. The one who lived in the corners of his mind, nameless but indelible. The scar between his eyes was red and vibrant but the rest of him was shadow and smoky formlessness.

"Laguna," the phantom whispered. "Wake up."

"I...no, you don't understand, I have to run. They'll catch me if I don't run."

"Come back to me." A plea, as soft as winter winds.

It was with a start that Laguna realized that he wanted to go to this ghost who dwelled in his mind. He moved closer, but the snow obscured him. "Where are you? I can't find you—"

From the depths of the snowfall, the man answered, "You're not looking. You've forgotten me. But I can't forget you. We share a soul. We talk without words. I see through your eyes. You see through mine. We are one. Come back."

The snowflakes doubled, then tripled. Now the figure in the distance was nothing but a smudge of black battered and hidden by the white. The man's voice was weak, smothered by the wind.

"Laguna, turn around. Go back. I'm searching for you. Come back to me."

And then the snow devoured him.

Still dreaming, he could feel it: the nameless phantom in the corner of his mind lifted its head and looked around, awake and ready to step forward. The doors to the cell where it had been imprisoned stood open. It crept out, taking shape as it did so.

"I'll be with you soon," he heard inside his mind. "Remember me."

Without warning, an image of a lean man with a scar before his eyes flashed across the surface of his mind. His features were clear as a crystal pond: young and handsome with just a hint of hidden darkness in his eyes. He was sitting in a chair and looking down at Laguna intensely. The flare of the image hurt at first, but gradually the pain turned into a warm, familiar comfort. "You know," the man said with a groan and let his head fall back and his legs spread wider, "I can't finish this report with you doing what you're doing."

Laguna pulled back and licked his lips. The scratch and tingle from hair against his tongue, the sweet and salty taste that lingered at the back of his throat—all of it was so real. "Do you mind all that much?" and the question mark was a long, slow drag of his tongue up.

The man shuddered and sat the report aside. "Not really."

Somehow, two places at once, Laguna sat back and watched, refusing to let this memory go. It was his and he wanted it. He wanted it all.

But when he woke, it was gone completely. Not even the taste that had been so strong was left to him. He found himself sobbing, certain that he had lost something vital, something he hadn't wanted to lose.

But, despite his sadness, a change  _had_  taken place. He couldn't see it, couldn't really feel it, but things were not as they once had been. Something alive and determined stalked through his mind. From that night onwards, things changed.

Every night, he dreamed, as always. But now no one chased him through a world of harsh snow. Now, someone loved him, gently making his body their own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long time updating. Thanks to any readers following this!


	6. Taste

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vincent is tormented when Laguna will not forget Squall no matter what he tries.

One chilly night, Laguna awoke from a nap with a problem. And unlike the other times when the blood was enough, this time, he knew it wasn't.

He had the strange feeling that this wasn't the first time something like this had happened to him: waking up in the dark of the night and wanting to fuck. All through the long hours he'd dreamed of skin and lips and had felt his stomach clench spastically: phantom sensations and muscle memory recreating reactions, how it felt to be penetrated. And his desire didn't feel like a new, unusual thing. In fact, everything about the ache inside him told him that, at some point, he had been quite used to waking up next to someone and wanting satisfaction.

And Vincent was at the door, coming for a visit. Good.

It was hard to control his voice when he was like this. "V-Vincent," he said, trying to speak slowly and clearly. But it didn't work. Vincent's ears perked up knowingly at the lust in his voice. He approached the bed. "Laguna?"

"I'm really sorry, but..." He knelt up, grabbed him, yanked him close and kissed him, acting out the scenes flashing in his mind. It wasn't quite right; Vincent's hair too long, his kiss too soft. Still, in the state he was in, it was enough.

"Please," Laguna whispered and tugged Vincent closer, trying to make him join him on the bed.

"We have to feed," was Vincent's protest.

"I need this more."

Giving in, Vincent let himself be maneuvered. Together, the two of them knelt atop the blankets. It only took a moment to undo the buttons of Laguna's shirt, to expose his neck. Sighing, Vincent kissed his way to where he wanted to be. He opened his mouth—

"No, not like that," Laguna groaned.

Vincent froze and looked puzzled. "But you said..."

Laguna shook his head, pulled away, and then moved Vincent's hand down his neck, past his collarbone. Vincent followed the path down with his eyes.

"What are you—"

Laguna kept guiding the hand lower, until finally he placed it over his crotch, to where he really wanted the attention. He squeezed. "Like this."

Vincent pulled back, surprised. "No. Just let me taste you. Everything between us is in the blood. We don't need more than that."

"I do," Laguna almost shouted. "You never touch me like that and I feel like...I feel like it's been ages since anyone has. Yes, it feels good when you drink from me. But it's not what I want right now. It's not enough."

He scooted back and stretched out on the bed, presenting himself and all his charms for Vincent to see. "Please?"

And Vincent couldn't deny him. Even if the worry lines around his mouth showed him to be reluctant, his eyes drank in the sight of his lover greedily. "Everything for me now is the blood. It has been a long time since I've..."

"Shhh. I'll lead, you follow."

It started out slow. Vincent's hesitance and Laguna's desperation didn't mix well. But eventually, Vincent let Laguna teach him. When his mouth was directed to a nipple, he licked it, enjoying the texture against his tongue.

"That's good," Laguna complimented. "Now bite."

"Bite?"

Laguna fought not to roll his eyes. He didn't know why, but he had a strange feeling that someone used to fuck him without the kid gloves. Someone, perhaps the phantom lover from his dreams, used to demand and claim. That man had made it very clear that he wanted him and wouldn't take no for an answer. Laguna craved that, what it felt like to be the center of everything for someone. He wanted it back. Now.

"Yes. Bite."

So Vincent did, not gently at all, and his eyes widened in disbelief at Laguna's back breaking, howling reaction. Arched off the bed and muscles straining, whatever he had done had worked. Finally, Laguna shuddered back onto the mattress, panting. "Yes. More."

"You...want this...hard," Vincent observed, shocked. His expression was as if he had seen a ghost.

"God, yes," Laguna sighed and then laughed at the look on Vincent's face. "Stop thinking. Do what you want to do to me. Show me that you want me."

So Vincent let go, let himself remember how he used to be. He told himself to stop thinking of Laguna like a man made of glass. He had once loved a man who had wanted almost nothing but pain. If he wanted him back, he would have to relearn how to please him, stop fearing that he will leave or be taken by monsters and killers in the night. Scorched in his memory was the image of Laguna arched like a rainbow, loving the sting of teeth on his body. It was beautiful, familiar, something he wanted to see again and again. So he made it rough.

Laguna's reactions were unreal. Every toss of his head, every grind of his hips made Vincent reel. Was this what his kind, gentlemanly lover had hidden inside him? Is this what he had given to—

Laguna grabbed at his hand again, brought it between his legs and then further back. Vincent didn't need to be told what to do. He wasn't gentle when he slid his fingers inside, though it went against everything he had forced himself to believe about the right way to treat his beloved. Laguna's encouragements made him forget his worries and remember his long suppressed desires. Even wanton and frantic Laguna amazed him. This was just another part of the puzzle of the man; that someone so refined and good could turn into  _this_  during intercourse. Vincent wanted to see more. He wanted to know how badly this passionate man could want him.

He felt powerful. Manipulating a creature like this, touching his body and making him react—it could be addictive. It had always been that way long ago. It was no wonder then, after all, what he had shared with that boy. It was no wonder that Squall had tried so hard to keep him.

"Are you ready?" he asked, moving to lie between Laguna's trembling legs.

His answer was hands on his ass, pulling him closer and then in. And then  _deep_.

And finally, finally deeper. And why had he denied himself with Laguna? This was...

"Laguna...you feel...nnnghh..."

It was a long-forgotten sensation, but he knew that, even back then, it had never been this tight and warm and welcoming. He couldn't think with the pleasure of it fogging his mind. All he saw—all he wanted to see—was Laguna. All he wanted to feel was here, being cradled by his luscious body.

He collapsed atop Laguna's heaving chest, waiting for the waves to subside so he could move inside him and own him. Laguna's legs wrapped around his waist—a sensation so sweet and sensual that Vincent had to fight not to come right then.

Laguna's mouth ghosted over his damp, salty skin. "I need this. I need this. Please, give it to me."

Vincent slid out slowly and then snapped back in. He must have touched somewhere good inside Laguna because the other man whimpered and rolled his hips for more.

"Talk to me," Laguna whispered.

"You feel amazing. I've never felt like this before."

Laguna seemed to return back into the role of the practical writer for just a long enough to say, "Actually, dirtier would be better."

Vincent paused and thought. "I never want another man to fuck you. Only me."

Laguna threw his head back and twisted beneath him. "More."

Vincent was at a bit of a loss. He had always wanted to shower Laguna with poetry. Laguna apparently wanted something else. Perhaps honesty would save him when poetry failed. "You're so tight. You're hard for me? You're trying to make this good for me?"

"Yes!"

"Good. I like that. Make it good for me." Vincent caressed Laguna's face and chest, spreading the sweat across his skin. "Let me own you."

It was too much, now. Too intense. It felt so good and was once again calling up scenes from Laguna's mind of a life he was sure he could never have lived, one filled with passion and feverish lovemaking. Vincent had never been so selfish before, so demanding. He held Laguna down by his upper arms. Laguna's hands were thrown over his head and clenching reflexively. The restraint was just another layer to what made this exactly what he needed. He wasn't in control here. It wasn't about him. Vincent was finally taking what he wanted. Taking, taking,  _taking_.

He knew he was being noisy, but he couldn't control himself. It was good. Too good. It was all so familiar, almost like, almost like...

Vincent kissed him ruthlessly and as he pulled back Laguna came, his scream taking him into unconsciousness.

When he woke, his throat was painfully raw. Vincent was whispering to him, gently petting his body. "It's never been like that before. Even with the blood, you've never given yourself to me like that before." Laguna wondered why he sounded so sad.

"What's wrong?"

"You...screamed a name."

Laguna felt the color drain from his face and remembered the mysterious lover from his daydreams. "It wasn't your name, was it?" he asked, feeling terribly guilty.

"No."

But probing the depths of his mind revealed nothing. "There's only you. I don't know who else it could be. "

"I do." Vincent caressed his face with weary affection. "He should be gone, but he's not. What hold does he have over you?"

Laguna was confused. "Who are we talking about here?"

"Never mind. Forget it."

"Where are you going?" Laguna asked as Vincent unfolded his long body from the bed.

"I-I don't know. It hurts. Looking at you and knowing you're not truly mine hurts. I want to go somewhere where I can't feel this pain anymore."

Laguna opened his mouth to deny what Vincent said, but couldn't. Somewhere, deep in his soul he knew it was true: whatever else he was, he wasn't, and would never be Vincent's.

* * *

"The Ancient One," echoed through the room, cackling voices alive with mirth. They were considering his question. Squall waited, trying to appear patient.

"He no longer prowls the centuries alone. He has turned another," the shadows whispered together. "A half-man with a half-soul."

"The Ancient One is not himself. He is lost to the world, staying in that castle of his, obsessed with this man he has stolen," said the first.

"They say he is beautiful," said the second.

The third snickered and added, "They say anyone would want him."

"We see that you also seek this companion of the Ancient One," the shadows teased. "Could it be that you have the other half?"

The third slid along the wall, moving closer to whisper in his ear. "Maybe the pretty wants to be whole again."

"Could you be the one to make that happen?" asked the first. "You should help him. We think he suffers."

"But sisters," said the second, "if we tell him anything more, the Ancient One will be displeased with us. His fury can be great."

The first agreed and was resolute when she said, "That is true. We cannot help you, hunter. Go back to where you came from. Let the Ancient have him. He has a right to part of him, at least."

Squall sighed and drew his gunblade, ignoring the throbbing bruises on his shoulders. The damn guard "dog." Three heads was a little excessive. A story tall was even worse. It had been one of those days.

The shadows were laughing at him. "You are a hunter, but we are immortal! What can that toy do to us?" they wondered, but there was an edge of fear to their voices.

"Watch."

He pulled the trigger and ignored the screams that filled the room for the next minute. The air cleared, but the smell of blood lingered.

They weren't laughing any longer. One was cowering in the corner, clutching a smoking limb. The second was crawling across the floor away from him. The last wasn't moving, but that wasn't his concern.

"Let's try this again," he said with a cold smirk.

* * *

The journey was over. He had wandered through the dark lands for months, lived the life of a hunter, seen things the world thought of as myth. Squall looked up at the old building and felt his determination triple. There was no turning back now.

He'd found him. He'd had to cross the world to do it, but he had at last done it. The world was midnight dark, the snow lit by moonlight. It was as good a time as any for a fight.

Vincent's ancestral home was a dreary place with tall windows and a facade that made it look impenetrable. Sat against the craggy mountains behind it, the house seemed almost a part of the earth, a force of nature impervious to change. Moving along the perimeter, he saw the so-called dog Vincent had kept as a pet.

"Here, puppy," Squall said in a vicious, sarcastic voice. "Let's play."

The dog growled at him, but it sounded more like a roar. "You're trespassing," it said.

Squall had seen enough crazy shit in his search for Vincent that he wasn't even surprised that the thing could talk. "Yes, but your master is a thief. He has something that belongs to me. I want it back."

The creature tilted its head to the side. It appeared far too clever to be a mere guard dog. "That may be the case, but I can't let you pass."

"But you admit that he took Laguna from me?"

"That was never under question," the dog said cautiously. "I don't have to agree with what he does, I merely have to serve him. You were wronged, but you would be wise to accept that as how life is. One man's loss, you understand."

"Step aside."

"You would also be wise to not start something you can't finish."

Squall didn't answer with words, but simply bolted for the door. If he could make it in time, he wouldn't have to fight. It wasn't to be. The dog was faster than he had expected. A splash of fire lashed at his face and he swung to the right. He missed and paid the price when teeth sunk into his arm. Only the leather of his jacket kept them from sinking in far enough to cause damage.

The pair of them, man and beast, darted and lunged, tiring each other out until finally, Squall feinted and went for a side slash, not too strong, but strong enough to get his point across.

The dog gave a cry, froze where he stood and suddenly flopped onto his side, bright red against the blue-tinted snow.

Squall looked down at his sword, surprised. He was sure he hadn't connected hard enough for the dog to go sprawling like that. He actually liked the dog, as it were, and had held back. Yet and still, it was breathing raggedly and not moving.

"Uh...are you okay?"

The dog opened one eye and squinted at him. "Cough, cough, oh, I've had it," he groaned dramatically. "You're a brave warrior. Cough, cough. Sucks to be me, defeated in such a way. Hack, hack, cough."

Squall's eyes were as wide as saucers. He felt more than a little unbalanced about all of this.

"Ohhhh...how I have failed!" the dog continued. "Oh, you're too cruel, torturing me like this!"

"Er..."

"Ooph, pow, bang. The humility! I give: the master is out of the mansion. I don't know when he'll return! Please don't hurt me again, strong champion!"

"I wasn't doing..."

The dog's entire body gave a shudder and he let out a wheezing noise that sounded like a fan overheating. "No more pain! Please! Alas, I am defeated. Cough, cough, wheeze. Hack. Now I can't even, cough, cough, guard the secret entrance to the castle on the east side."

"East...?

"Ohhhhh! The a-go-ny! You're beating it out of me. But I'll fight you to the last! You'll never find out that the way in is to push the family crest! Not from me, cough, cough. Take two lefts and go down the steps. It's the second door on your right. Gag, shudder...blah."

Squall opened his mouth as if to say something else, thought better of it and then went on his way.

"Th-thanks..." he said over his shoulder.

"Oh, this is the big one! I see the light at the end of the tunnel!" the dog cried back.

* * *

The atmosphere of the castle was everything Squall had come to expect from the new world he hunted. The very framework was glued together with dark, esoteric arts. Ghosts walked the shadows.

And here, deep in the heart of what was more fortress than castle, he found him. The massive room had once been a ballroom, but now looked almost like an extended living room. Before heavy curtains, staring out at the evening beyond, Laguna stood, watching the snow as it once again started to fall. And seeing him there made all the rest of the room fade into nothingness.

He wore a long, old-fashioned coat that flattered him, but made him seem austere. His chestnut hair fell down around his shoulders, longer than it had been since Squall was a teenager. At the echoing sound of footsteps, he turned his eyes intensely green eyes to the entrance.

There was a handsome young man dressed in black and wielding what looked like a prototype military weapon, a rifle with a long blade extending from it. It was a shame, Laguna decided, that his pretty face was damaged by an old scar and a tired, haggard look, as if he had stopped sleeping and shaving long ago. What he was doing here was a mystery to Laguna. Why he knew to the marrow of his bones that he had seen him somewhere before was the next one down on the list.

"I don't think you're supposed to be here," he said.

The young man holstered the strange weapon and took a step forward. "If you're here, then that's where I belong."

Laguna looked confused, as if he couldn't help himself as he drew closer. When the stranger took a step, he took one too.

"Do I know you?"

Squall didn't answer, but when they stood a foot apart, his hands clenched at his sides, fighting not to touch Laguna. What if he frightened him, gave him the wrong impression with his eagerness to just hold him again? No, he'd have to talk to him first, but having him this close again was making it difficult to say anything. He had planned everything he wanted to say—a million things that were supposed to make Laguna come home with him. They had all withered and turned to ash on his tongue.

Laguna reached out and hesitantly touched his cheek. His hands were cold.

"Why do I feel like this?"

"You have to...come home," Squall said through clenched teeth. "Even if you can't remember, you can feel it. You don't belong here. Come home. I need you," he started, but the words as-is were still too much for him, even now. "To come home," he finished.

Laguna's hand dropped away and he took a step back. "This is home." Suddenly, his expression brightened. "Stay. Have something to drink with me?"

"Yes," Squall said, fighting the constriction in his throat.

So Laguna led him across the wide room to a sitting area arranged before the window. It was obviously a new addition, something that Laguna had wanted or, possibly needed. The style, the colors, the patterns of the tablecloth were all fitting to his tastes. There was even a hot water thermos; there to support a tea habit unrivaled by anyone Squall had ever met.

"Have a seat," Laguna said, indicating the couch. And then, as if he couldn't stop himself, he sat next to Squall, closer than strangers would sit. His hands shook as he poured the tea. Studying him, Squall was disturbed. Laguna had always been handsome, now he was unnaturally so. His pale skin and vibrant eyes made him seem like something from a dream. He was as smooth as marble, flawless, timeless. Squall missed the lines that had been around his eyes and the faint wrinkles that had once shown when he smiled.

"You're beautiful," Squall said, frowning.

Laguna rattled the cup and saucers together and had to place them on the table to keep from dropping them. He looked at Squall. "Why is it that you sound disappointed?"

"I-I liked you the way you were before."

"Before? I don't know what you mean." Saying that, he stood and opened the doors of a nearby cabinet. "Ah, here it is," he said and walked back to the table, triumphant with instant coffee. "You don't drink tea, do you?"

"No. No, I don't," Squall whispered. Laguna nodded as if a piece of a big puzzle had just fallen into place. He poured the hot water and slid the coffee across the table to him. Neither man moved to drink. Instead, Laguna scooted closer and Squall watched him with anxious eyes. Slowly, his hands lifted and, without actually touching, glided over Squall's face. Cheek and lip and jaw and neck were all mapped out without sensation. "What are you?" he asked, finally letting his hands settle over the beat of Squall's heart.

"Please," Squall choked. "This is killing me. You have to remember. I'm...I," and he couldn't say anything that he wanted to say because he'd never been able to. Without willing it to do so, his body shifted forward and over, closer.

Eyes darting over Squall's face, Laguna asked, "Why did you come here?" It was barely said, mostly breath against Squall's lips.

"For you," Squall moaned. "I came here for you." And then he gave in just as Laguna did. The kiss was raw, desperate, more than a little frantic. The more Squall tasted, the more his tongue pushed in and demanded, the more he realized it wasn't enough.

"God, I've needed this," he gasped in between embraces. Laguna's hands were fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer. Squall felt his body taking over, ready to push Laguna down and finish this. He angled in for a deeper kiss,  _showing_  what he felt, each touch a confession. He'd never been good with words.

He pushed Laguna back, worked his way under his clothing, let himself be intoxicated by the feel of his cool skin. He maneuvered between the other man's legs, a familiar place, and gasped at the matching hardness settling against his own. He kissed him harder, longingly. This was the only way he knew how to explain. He had to tell him that he—

Laguna suddenly broke away. He looked frightened and aroused and hopeful all at the same time.

"You...you're not some stranger. That wasn't just any kiss, was it?"

"No, it wasn't. Please tell me you remember."

Squeezing his eyes together, Laguna mouthed words silently, trying. He sat up and pressed one hand against his forehead while the other glided over and under Squall's clothing. "I want to remember you. I want to remember this." Without warning, a stream of blood trickled from his nose, as if the effort to break whatever barrier kept him from the truth was hurting him.

"You're—" Squall said and reached out a hand worriedly.

"No, let it be. It happens sometimes. Don't stop me. It's so close, I can almost feel it." He didn't stop touching Squall, even as the blood flowed down his face.

"Laguna, look at me."

Laguna did.

"I was never good at talking. I'm still not. But we don't need words because...because...dammit we don't! We never did. You can feel this, can't you? You know where you're supposed to be. I'm not some stranger. I'm—"

"Just leaving, actually," a voice said with authority. It rang through the wide room like a funeral bell.

The men on the couch stood abruptly. Laguna looked guilty while Squall fumed.

"Vincent!" Laguna said.

"You," Squall growled and pulled his weapon.

"So, the little cub has come?" Vincent crossed his arms, looking beyond displeased. "You know, I believe those," he said and pointed at the weapon, "are illegal in city limits."

"Yeah, well I'm a decorated soldier from a long line of war heroes, including the man you've kidnapped. We get perks."

"Ah, yes, you followed in your  _father's_  footsteps," Vincent said with a condescending huff and turned to look at Laguna. "Are you all right?"

Laguna dabbed at the blood, sniffed, and darted a nervous glance at Squall. "I'm fine," he said. The mysterious man turned to look at him and the magnetism wasn't any less strong for all that Vincent was there. He wanted to go back to the couch and finish what they'd started. Every part of his body wanted to touch him, to take care of him and protect him. Laguna felt himself drifting towards him again.

"Laguna!" Vincent snapped and the trance was broken. "Come here."

Laguna reluctantly pulled himself away. It seemed to take all the effort in his body to do so, especially when the stranger held out a hand towards him, asking him to come back. But he couldn't, could he? He knew where he was supposed to be, right? When he stood next to Vincent, the dark-haired man put a possessive arm around his waist.

Laguna spoke to him quietly, but Squall could hear as he said, "Vincent, who is he? Why do I feel like—"

"He's no one. A meddler. He won't bother you again."

"He's not exactly BOTHERING me, Vincent."

"You're confused. Don't worry, you'll feel better once he's gone."

"I was kind of hoping he could stay."

"No."

"Vincent!" Squall shouted. "Let him go."

"You never learn. Do we have to do this again? This time, I  _will_  kill you."

Laguna tugged on Vincent's sleeve. "I  _really_  wish you wouldn't."

Vincent suddenly turned to Laguna, eyes inquisitive. "What are you thinking?" he whispered. "He is a trespasser. He's here to confuse you. What's going on in that head of yours?"

"Nothing. It's just...he...he's special. He makes me feel...different."

"Does he?" Vincent leaned in close. "Laguna," he growled, "forget."

Arched back over Vincent's arm, he submitted to the kiss, which was as different from the stranger's as could be. He couldn't understand why, but Vincent's kiss tasted like guilt. And then it suddenly tasted like honey. Like nectar. He drank what passed to him greedily. Gulped it.

Slowly, he felt something overtaking him. He felt empty, like parchment bleached in the sun. Bone dry.

When it ended and he turned back, it was to find unfamiliar eyes glaring at him, black with fury. Who was that angry young man?  _How had he gotten here?_  he wondered. It was all too confusing.

"Laguna, are you all right?" Vincent purred in his ear.

"I'm very tired," he admitted. "Who is he?"

"No one. Nothing."

"Oh, I see." He turned his head to stare up at his lover. "Then you should make him leave. Vincent, take me to bed."

"Laguna?" Squall said, surprised. He reeled back when Laguna looked up at him with blank, unfamiliar eyes.

"Who are you?" He looked very stern as he asked, "How do you know my name?"

"Because I know  _you_. You're supposed to be with me. We were happy together."

Laguna leaned back into the comfortable folds of Vincent's coat. Things made sense there. This boy was making his head hurt. "Maybe you should leave."

"What did he do to you?"

"Nothing. I'm staying here. Where I belong. Go."

"I won't hesitate this time, boy," Vincent said low and deadly.

Squall took a step forward, extending his hand to Laguna once again. "Please, Laguna—"

He could feel Vincent's body tense against his, ready to spring and attack. He cast a worried look at his lover's stormy face and then looked back at the stranger. "GO!" he shouted, turning his face into Vincent's chest. "Vincent, please. Just send him away."

The look on Vincent's face was triumphant. Squall hated him in that moment more than ever. "I haven't given up," he said.

"You should," Vincent replied. "This is the second time he's saved your life. Thank him in your soul because you'll never see him again to do it in person." With a wave of his hand he sent a ripple of transparent energy at Squall, pushing him back, back, and out the door. They closed heavily, locking him out on a final, terrifying sound that echoed through the corridors.

Laguna tried to cover his ears so as not to hear the banging at the door, the young man refusing to give up. Eventually, however, there was silence. He was gone.

He was gone and life could go back to how it had been before. No matter how dark and lonely, no matter if the boy was right and they  _had_  been happy together once. No matter if the boy was the answer to all the questions he had, the one to fill up the empty places. That maybe he'd turned away a chance at something better, it was to late now. He was gone. And at least he was safe from Vincent's fury.

"Forget about him," Vincent said, kissing his neck sensually.

"I-I already have," Laguna replied and cried out in pain and pleasure when Vincent's teeth sunk in. This was all there was.


	7. Taking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He simply couldn't live like this. He needed Laguna and he'd be damned if he had to go another day without him.

Once he had thought that he couldn't sleep in the bed.  _Their_  bed, the only one in the house that mattered. He'd spent two weeks on the couch, but had given in eventually. He'd rather remember the feeling of Laguna beside him up here than try and make his absence hurt less by sleeping down there. He hadn't changed the sheets. The smell of Laguna clung to them and he would not lose that, too. On the worst nights, he exhausted himself trying to find some kind of satisfaction. Every time he brought himself off, it was to the image of Laguna beneath him, on top of him, simply sitting beside him. Fist pumping, he tried to make it taste and feel the same. He failed again and again, feeling worse when he came than he had before with the ache and need. It was empty relief.

Every day blended seamlessly into the next in ways that made him feel as if he were sleepwalking.

One day, he believed, he'd wake up and Laguna would be beside him again. He'd laugh, pull his hair back so he could kiss Squall without it getting in the way and then he'd say, "I was just playing a joke, like always. I'm here and I'm not leaving you."

Then they could make love for hours and spend the night wrapped up in, and around, each other.

He never woke up. The nightmare he was living just kept going on.

And he hated. He hated Vincent, and himself. Sometimes he hated Laguna for leaving him, for letting himself be taken away by that monster.

Finally, the hate turned into something else: determination. Not all of it was his own doing.

Things had been rocky between Squall and Kiros for a long time now. The loss of Laguna, one of he few things they had in common, helped mend the tear. It gave them something to get smashed together over one very lonely, very cold night. Squall poured both of them another liberal helping of scotch and slumped forward onto his elbows at the kitchen bar.

"You're killing yourself slowly like this. You should give up," Kiros said miserably. His body language suggested that he'd rather not be talking about what Laguna and Squall we're together, but that he couldn't think of a way around it. The white elephant in the room was making him squirm. "Just be glad you had him for as long as you did," he added with a wince. "Because he's...he's not coming back."

"Don't say that. He will come back."

The scowl Kiros sent him in answer could have paralyzed puppies. "Maybe he's waiting for you to come get him. Ever think of  _that_?"

Squall sat up and winced at the other man through a haze of alcohol. "Hmmph?"

"Yeah, that's what I said. You go get him. Kill the dragon. Save the day. Happily ever after and all that."

"You make it sound like (hic) you'll do it if I won't."

"Good, because that's exactly how it's supposed to sound. Get off your lazy arse and go do something or you don't deserve him. You don't deserve him anyway, but...whatever. What was I talking about (hic)?"

Squall frowned, smacked his lips together and then answered, "Arses."

"Yes. Here's to them!"

They clinked glasses and fell asleep leaning against each other, friends again in tragedy.

* * *

The following morning, Squall woke, shaved as he hadn't done in weeks, and came to a decision while looking at the haunted thing he had become. Kiros was right, he was killing himself and not all of it was unintentional.

He was too thin, too pale. He couldn't remember the last time he'd smiled.

He simply couldn't live like this. He needed Laguna and he'd be damned if he had to go another day without him. He was going to get him back. Kill the dragon, save the day. All of that. No matter what he had to become to make it happen.

One way or the other.

* * *

Little touches here and there announced Laguna's presence in the castle. Splashes of color appeared where there had been only black and blood red. Music could be heard blasting from a new study the minute he woke, and a constant supply of tea flowed in and out of the freshly scrubbed kitchen.

Vincent smiled half in amusement and loving graciousness. The rest was frustration. He had imagined Laguna spending every hour with him. Especially since he'd shortened his time out in the dark world even more to stay at home with him as much as possible. But the weeks had gone on this way with Laguna still slipping back into a routine that he shouldn't have at all. He still woke with the sun, which was against the very nature of what he was now.

Yes, this was a routine, one that revolved around Squall, who was supposed to be out of his system, out of his mind, out of his heart. The taste of him was weak now, so what was the cause of this behavior?

It wasn't as if Laguna's attentions to Vincent were lacking, they just weren't all that he wanted them to be. He wanted everything and, no matter how hard he tried, ended up with less than half. Squall, even in his absence, had the majority.

"Why are you cooking?" Vincent asked one day as he stumbled into the kitchen, still drowsy from a long day's sleep.

"Because it's almost six and he'll be home soon." He was so matter-of-fact, so relaxed with the idea that he didn't even turn around or stop what he was doing to answer.

Vincent's voice dropped into dangerous levels. " _Who_  will be home soon?"

Suddenly, the knife Laguna had been using to cut vegetables clattered to the floor. "I-I...I was sure someone was coming. I was waiting for them all day, sure that they'd be coming. I was...so happy to cook dinner for them."

"No one's coming, Laguna. It's just you and me."

Laguna turned then, looking flustered and lost. A tiny stream of blood flowed from his nose and he wiped it away. "Of course. Just you and me." He sounded crushed when he said it. To cover the fact, he shakily bent to retrieve the knife. His attention was too divided, his mind too distracted. No sooner had he cried out than Vincent was there. He brought the slash to his mouth and licked away the blood. Then, because one taste was never enough, he sucked the fingers into his mouth and drank. Laguna watched the tableau with heavily lidded eyes.

At first, the now familiar delicious taste of Laguna was all he noticed. It was intoxicating how his essence lingered at the back of his throat like this. But slowly, another taste overcame it, no less potent, but unwanted.

Him. The taste of  _him_. Just when he had thought he had succeeded in eliminating him, he was back, as strong as before.

Why did Laguna remember him? What could he do to make him forget?

He dropped Laguna's hand and they both watched as the wound closed rapidly until it was as if it had never been. Vincent backed away.

"What's wrong?" Laguna asked with genuine, almost fatherly concern.

"Nothing. I just had a terrible reminder: some things cannot be destroyed." He paused and looked at his hands, at Laguna's blood on his fingers. "And some things can never be brought back."

"What does that mean?"

Vincent lowered his head. "Nothing. You need to feed, you are weak." He held out his wrist in offering.

"I'm fine," Laguna protested and wouldn't take it, which seemed to upset Vincent even more.

"Then stay here, I must go."

With that he fled, leaving Laguna alone to decide what to do with a dinner for a guest that would never come.

* * *

Months into it and Squall could almost believe that the life he lived now wasn't so hard. Learning that all the things he hadn't even believed in as a kid were, all of them, true—that had been the first big step. Learning to walk fearlessly in the underbelly of the world, learning to see what he had so easily ignored before. There were things out there that no human wanted to believe in. Once he conquered his disbelief, conquering the monsters themselves was easy.

Which brought him to his current position.

The thing wasn't so tough. Mostly, Squall was disappointed. All the hype and this was the best their little ragtag underground had to offer.

From what Squall understood, this one went by the name "Ifrit." It had taken two weeks to track it down. All the gossip had it as a ruthless, cunning, and feared killer.

So much for that.

Here and there on the ground were clumps of thick fur, ripped out during the initial savvy. A bent and battered dumpster was testament to the damage a 500 pound body could do when launched through the air like a cannonball by a close range blast. And the blood streaming from the gashes and cuts on its arms and torso explained how Ifrit had ended up in its current position.

Squall pinned the thing up against the wall with his forearm at its thick neck. It's long jaws snapped at him, but were shy by inches.

"Okay, let's try this again," Squall intoned and moved his gunblade closer. "Where is he?"

Ifrit growled at him, red eyes hate-filled.

Squall backhanded it and listened to the satisfying noise of a tooth dropping to the pavement. "I'm really tired of asking you. I might let you live if you just give in."

Ifrit suddenly looked afraid. It now understood that it had been outclassed for the first time in its very long life. High above, the full moon seemed to laugh. For all the promises to the contrary that experience had given, the moon hadn't done any good tonight. Ifrit wasn't used to feeling powerless.

"I...I won't fight you," the creature barked. "You win. Release me and I'll tell you."

Squall took a step back and sheathed his gunblade. That simple, trusting gesture decided it for Ifrit. How could one justly attack a man who so easily put his trust in others? The answer was simple: Ifrit, at least, couldn't.

When Ifrit spoke, it was in a deep, rumbling voice not unlike an avalanche in the mountains. "You are on the right track. Closer than anyone has ever come before. Vincent is hard to find, but he is predictable. He always moves in the same patterns; always winters in his ancestral home."

"Can you tell me the way?"

And something in the young hero's voice made Ifrit tilt its head. "I remember now: I have heard stories about you. You are the one from those dark tales? The ones that say a warrior haunted by his own demons stalks our kind and our allies, seeking out the Ancient One. He cannot be defeated. Why do you hunt him?"

The young man looked Ifrit in the eye and the moonlight shadows had turned them black and cold. "He took something that belongs to me. I want it back."

"But look at how you live your life. Fighting one such as me on a night like this? Are you a fool? You may have beaten me, but I am not the strongest of my kind. One day you will meet someone stronger and die or be turned. Nothing he took could be worth your life or your humanity. Quit this foolish quest now before you get yourself killed."

"I can't. I won't."

Ifrit tilted its big, shaggy head once again. "He didn't take any  _thing_. He took some _one_ , didn't he?"

Squall clenched his fists. "Yes."

"Then you're a bigger fool than I thought trying to get them back. Whatever they are now, they aren't human anymore."

"I don't care. Tell me what I need to know and I'll leave you and your kind alone."

Settling onto its haunches, Ifrit considered the offer. "That is my wish. Very well, hunter, I will tell you."

Once the scarred hunter had departed with gruff thanks tossed over his shoulder, Ifrit licked at its slowly healing wounds. "Defeated by a lovesick fool," it grumbled. "Good luck, hunter. You will need it."

* * *

Vincent had taken more blood than usual today and though he knew that he now had a certain dependence on the blood, Laguna hadn't wanted to drink it. He'd fallen asleep shortly after and Vincent had held him, choosing to lie beside him rather than go out.

Laguna groaned painfully in his sleep and thrashed once, twice. Vincent pulled him closer. "I'm so sorry, beloved. I'm so sorry."

Laguna could hear him. He was trapped.

In the same cursed dream.

Himself, younger and blonde and cocky and arrogant. Only now he was beaten and too tired to run anymore. All he had wanted was to spend life forever with Vincent. He'd gone about it the wrong way.

And now he couldn't escape.

A voice spoke to him and made Laguna come to a halt. Up ahead, a man stood. He took a step forward, limping slightly, and pulled long brown hair back off his older face. His green eyes had the faintest lines at their corners.

"You know, you're like a woodpecker in a petrified forest. You keep doing the same thing and it's not really making a dent. Aren't you tired of running?"

And of course he was, but that wasn't the point. He ran because they chased them.

"Who, Laguna?" he asked himself. "Who's chasing you?"

He looked behind him and saw nothing but the vast white landscape. "No one," he whispered, confused.

"They caught you a long time ago. You died. It wasn't the first time, it won't be the last. You can rest now. No one is after us. And you have somewhere to be."

"What do you mean?" he asked and whirled back around, but the man was gone. In his place was...

_Him_. The one who teased Laguna. The one who lived in the corners of his mind, nameless but indelible. The scar between his eyes was red and vibrant but the rest of him was shadow and smoky formlessness.

"Laguna," the phantom whispered. "Wake up."

"I...no, you don't understand, I have to run. They'll catch me if I don't run."

"Come back to me." A plea, as soft as winter winds.

It was with a start that Laguna realized that he wanted to go to this ghost who dwelled in his mind. He moved closer, but the snow obscured him. "Where are you? I can't find you—"

From the depths of the snowfall, the man answered, "You're not looking. You've forgotten me. But I can't forget you. We share a soul. We talk without words. I see through your eyes. You see through mine. We are one. Come back."

The snowflakes doubled, then tripled. Now the figure in the distance was nothing but a smudge of black battered and hidden by the white. The man's voice was weak, smothered by the wind.

"Laguna, turn around. Go back. I'm searching for you. Come back to me."

And then the snow devoured him.

Still dreaming, he could feel it: the nameless phantom in the corner of his mind lifted its head and looked around, awake and ready to step forward. The doors to the cell where it had been imprisoned stood open. It crept out, taking shape as it did so.

"I'll be with you soon," he heard inside his mind. "Remember me."

Without warning, an image of a lean man with a scar before his eyes flashed across the surface of his mind. His features were clear as a crystal pond: young and handsome with just a hint of hidden darkness in his eyes. He was sitting in a chair and looking down at Laguna intensely. The flare of the image hurt at first, but gradually the pain turned into a warm, familiar comfort. "You know," the man said with a groan and let his head fall back and his legs spread wider, "I can't finish this report with you doing what you're doing."

Laguna pulled back and licked his lips. The scratch and tingle from hair against his tongue, the sweet and salty taste that lingered at the back of his throat—all of it was so real. "Do you mind all that much?" and the question mark was a long, slow drag of his tongue up.

The man shuddered and sat the report aside. "Not really."

Somehow, two places at once, Laguna sat back and watched, refusing to let this memory go. It was his and he wanted it. He wanted it all.

But when he woke, it was gone completely. Not even the taste that had been so strong was left to him. He found himself sobbing, certain that he had lost something vital, something he hadn't wanted to lose.

But, despite his sadness, a change  _had_  taken place. He couldn't see it, couldn't really feel it, but things were not as they once had been. Something alive and determined stalked through his mind. From that night onwards, things changed.

Every night, he dreamed, as always. But now no one chased him through a world of harsh snow. Now, someone loved him, gently making his body their own.

* * *

One chilly night, Laguna awoke from a nap with a problem. And unlike the other times when the blood was enough, this time, he knew it wasn't.

He had the strange feeling that this wasn't the first time something like this had happened to him: waking up in the dark of the night and wanting to fuck. All through the long hours he'd dreamed of skin and lips and had felt his stomach clench spastically: phantom sensations and muscle memory recreating reactions, how it felt to be penetrated. And his desire didn't feel like a new, unusual thing. In fact, everything about the ache inside him told him that, at some point, he had been quite used to waking up next to someone and wanting satisfaction.

And Vincent was at the door, coming for a visit. Good.

It was hard to control his voice when he was like this. "V-Vincent," he said, trying to speak slowly and clearly. But it didn't work. Vincent's ears perked up knowingly at the lust in his voice. He approached the bed. "Laguna?"

"I'm really sorry, but..." He knelt up, grabbed him, yanked him close and kissed him, acting out the scenes flashing in his mind. It wasn't quite right; Vincent's hair too long, his kiss too soft. Still, in the state he was in, it was enough.

"Please," Laguna whispered and tugged Vincent closer, trying to make him join him on the bed.

"We have to feed," was Vincent's protest.

"I need this more."

Giving in, Vincent let himself be maneuvered. Together, the two of them knelt atop the blankets. It only took a moment to undo the buttons of Laguna's shirt, to expose his neck. Sighing, Vincent kissed his way to where he wanted to be. He opened his mouth—

"No, not like that," Laguna groaned.

Vincent froze and looked puzzled. "But you said..."

Laguna shook his head, pulled away, and then moved Vincent's hand down his neck, past his collarbone. Vincent followed the path down with his eyes.

"What are you—"

Laguna kept guiding the hand lower, until finally he placed it over his crotch, to where he really wanted the attention. He squeezed. "Like this."

Vincent pulled back, surprised. "No. Just let me taste you. Everything between us is in the blood. We don't need more than that."

"I do," Laguna almost shouted. "You never touch me like that and I feel like...I feel like it's been ages since anyone has. Yes, it feels good when you drink from me. But it's not what I want right now. It's not enough."

He scooted back and stretched out on the bed, presenting himself and all his charms for Vincent to see. "Please?"

And Vincent couldn't deny him. Even if the worry lines around his mouth showed him to be reluctant, his eyes drank in the sight of his lover greedily. "Everything for me now is the blood. It has been a long time since I've..."

"Shhh. I'll lead, you follow."

It started out slow. Vincent's hesitance and Laguna's desperation didn't mix well. But eventually, Vincent let Laguna teach him. When his mouth was directed to a nipple, he licked it, enjoying the texture against his tongue.

"That's good," Laguna complimented. "Now bite."

"Bite?"

Laguna fought not to roll his eyes. He didn't know why, but he had a strange feeling that someone used to fuck him without the kid gloves. Someone, perhaps the phantom lover from his dreams, used to demand and claim. That man had made it very clear that he wanted him and wouldn't take no for an answer. Laguna craved that, what it felt like to be the center of everything for someone. He wanted it back. Now.

"Yes. Bite."

So Vincent did, not gently at all, and his eyes widened in disbelief at Laguna's back breaking, howling reaction. Arched off the bed and muscles straining, whatever he had done had worked. Finally, Laguna shuddered back onto the mattress, panting. "Yes. More."

"You...want this...hard," Vincent observed, shocked. His expression was as if he had seen a ghost.

"God, yes," Laguna sighed and then laughed at the look on Vincent's face. "Stop thinking. Do what you want to do to me. Show me that you want me."

So Vincent let go, let himself remember how he used to be. He told himself to stop thinking of Laguna like a man made of glass. He had once loved a man who had wanted almost nothing but pain. If he wanted him back, he would have to relearn how to please him, stop fearing that he will leave or be taken by monsters and killers in the night. Scorched in his memory was the image of Laguna arched like a rainbow, loving the sting of teeth on his body. It was beautiful, familiar, something he wanted to see again and again. So he made it rough.

Laguna's reactions were unreal. Every toss of his head, every grind of his hips made Vincent reel. Was this what his kind, gentlemanly lover had hidden inside him? Is this what he had given to—

Laguna grabbed at his hand again, brought it between his legs and then further back. Vincent didn't need to be told what to do. He wasn't gentle when he slid his fingers inside, though it went against everything he had forced himself to believe about the right way to treat his beloved. Laguna's encouragements made him forget his worries and remember his long suppressed desires. Even wanton and frantic Laguna amazed him. This was just another part of the puzzle of the man; that someone so refined and good could turn into  _this_  during intercourse. Vincent wanted to see more. He wanted to know how badly this passionate man could want him.

He felt powerful. Manipulating a creature like this, touching his body and making him react—it could be addictive. It had always been that way long ago. It was no wonder then, after all, what he had shared with that boy. It was no wonder that Squall had tried so hard to keep him.

"Are you ready?" he asked, moving to lie between Laguna's trembling legs.

His answer was hands on his ass, pulling him closer and then in. And then  _deep_.

And finally, finally deeper. And why had he denied himself with Laguna? This was...

"Laguna...you feel...nnnghh..."

It was a long-forgotten sensation, but he knew that, even back then, it had never been this tight and warm and welcoming. He couldn't think with the pleasure of it fogging his mind. All he saw—all he wanted to see—was Laguna. All he wanted to feel was here, being cradled by his luscious body.

He collapsed atop Laguna's heaving chest, waiting for the waves to subside so he could move inside him and own him. Laguna's legs wrapped around his waist—a sensation so sweet and sensual that Vincent had to fight not to come right then.

Laguna's mouth ghosted over his damp, salty skin. "I need this. I need this. Please, give it to me."

Vincent slid out slowly and then snapped back in. He must have touched somewhere good inside Laguna because the other man whimpered and rolled his hips for more.

"Talk to me," Laguna whispered.

"You feel amazing. I've never felt like this before."

Laguna seemed to return back into the role of the practical writer for just a long enough to say, "Actually, dirtier would be better."

Vincent paused and thought. "I never want another man to fuck you. Only me."

Laguna threw his head back and twisted beneath him. "More."

Vincent was at a bit of a loss. He had always wanted to shower Laguna with poetry. Laguna apparently wanted something else. Perhaps honesty would save him when poetry failed. "You're so tight. You're hard for me? You're trying to make this good for me?"

"Yes!"

"Good. I like that. Make it good for me." Vincent caressed Laguna's face and chest, spreading the sweat across his skin. "Let me own you."

It was too much, now. Too intense. It felt so good and was once again calling up scenes from Laguna's mind of a life he was sure he could never have lived, one filled with passion and feverish lovemaking. Vincent had never been so selfish before, so demanding. He held Laguna down by his upper arms. Laguna's hands were thrown over his head and clenching reflexively. The restraint was just another layer to what made this exactly what he needed. He wasn't in control here. It wasn't about him. Vincent was finally taking what he wanted. Taking, taking,  _taking_.

He knew he was being noisy, but he couldn't control himself. It was good. Too good. It was all so familiar, almost like, almost like...

Vincent kissed him ruthlessly and as he pulled back Laguna came, his scream taking him into unconsciousness.

When he woke, his throat was painfully raw. Vincent was whispering to him, gently petting his body. "It's never been like that before. Even with the blood, you've never given yourself to me like that before." Laguna wondered why he sounded so sad.

"What's wrong?"

"You...screamed a name."

Laguna felt the color drain from his face and remembered the mysterious lover from his daydreams. "It wasn't your name, was it?" he asked, feeling terribly guilty.

"No."

But probing the depths of his mind revealed nothing. "There's only you. I don't know who else it could be. "

"I do." Vincent caressed his face with weary affection. "He should be gone, but he's not. What hold does he have over you?"

Laguna was confused. "Who are we talking about here?"

"Never mind. Forget it."

"Where are you going?" Laguna asked as Vincent unfolded his long body from the bed.

"I-I don't know. It hurts. Looking at you and knowing you're not truly mine hurts. I want to go somewhere where I can't feel this pain anymore."

Laguna opened his mouth to deny what Vincent said, but couldn't. Somewhere, deep in his soul he knew it was true: whatever else he was, he wasn't, and would never be Vincent's.


End file.
